
** ISIusic^ ivhen soft voices die. 
Vibrates in ike memory.''^ — 





THE 



GOLDEN TREASURY 



O^ THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS 
IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 



SELECTED AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES 



FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 

FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE, OXFORD 





, O 




NEW YORK 
FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER 

MDCCCLXXXIX 




\ 






^fi^ii 




"Els Tov "kei^oiva Kadio-as^ 

aip6fj,€vos aypevfJ,^ av$eoyv 
ahopuiva '*\rv)(a 



55 






Copyright, 1889, 
By Frederick A. Stokes Sl Brother. 







TO ALFRED TENNYSON 

POET LAUREATE 

THIS book in its progress has recalled often tc 
my memory a man with whose friendship we ■ 
were once honoured, to whom no region of English 
Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all 
the noble gifts of Nature, was most eminently dis- 
tinguished by the noblest and the rarest, — just judg- 
ment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have 
been hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate 
what I have endeavoured to make a true national 
Anthology of three centuries to Henry Hallam. But 
he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love 
and reverence ; and I desire therefore to place before 
it a name united witli his by associations which, 
whilst Poetry retains her hold on the minds of Eng- 
lishmen, are not likely to be forgotten. 

Your encouragement, given while traversing the 

vrild scenery of Treryn Dinas, led me to begin the 

work ; and it has been completed under your advice 

b 



w 








1^ 



viii Dedication 

and assistance. For the favour now asked I have 
thus a second reason : and to this I may add, the 
homage which is your right as Poet, and the grati- 
tude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no 
common value. 

Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book 
which, I hope, may be found by many a lifelong 
fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure ; a source 
of animation to friends when they meet ; and able 
to sweeten . solitude itself with best society, — with 
the companionship of the wise and the good, with 
the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music 
■only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a 
storehouse of delight to Labour and to Poverty, — 
if it teaches those indifferent to the Poets to love 
them, and those who love them to love them more, 
the aim and the desire entertained in framing it will 
be fully accomplished. 

F. T. P. 







'-"•k<3^ ' . 





fS'A^ 



/A 



PREFACE 



THIS little Collection differs, it is believed, from 
others in the attempt made to include in it all 
the best original Lyrical pieces and Songs in our lan- 
guage, by writers not living, — and none beside the 
best. Many familiar verses will hence be met with ; 
many also which should be familiar: — the Editor 
will regard as his fittest readers those who love Po- 
etry so well, that he can offer them nothing not 
already known and valued. 

The Editor is acquainted with no strict and ex- 
haustive definition of Lyrical Poetiy ; but he has 
found the task of practical decision increase in clear- 
ness and in facility as he advanced with the work, 
whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyri- 
cal has been here held essentially to imply that each 
Poem shall turn on some single thought, feeling, or 
situation. In accordance "with this, narrative, descrip- 
tive, and didactic poems, — unless accompanied by 
rapidity of movement, brevity, and the colouring of 
human passion, — have been excluded. Humourous 
poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where 
a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is 








X ■ Preface 

strictly personal, occasional, and religious, has been 
considered foreign to the idea of the book. Blank 
verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with_ all pieces 
markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from 
what is commonly understood by Song, and rarely 
conforming to Lyrical conditions in treatment. But 
it is not anticipated, nor is it possible, that all readers 
shall think the line accurately drawn. Some poems, 
as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Words- 
worth's Ruth or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be 
claimed with perhaps equal justice for a narrative or 
descriptive selection : whilst with reference especially 
to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that 
he has taken his utmost pains to decide without 
caprice or partiality. 

This also is all he can plead in regard to a point 
even more liable to question ; — what degree of merit 
should give rank among the Best. That a Poem shall 
be worthy of the writer's genius, — that it shall reach 
a perfection commensurate with its aim, — that we 
should require finish in proportion to brevity, — that 
passion, colour, and originality cannot atone for seri- 
ous imperfections in clearness, unity, or trutli, — that 
a few good lines do not make a good poem, — that 
popular estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more 
than as a compass, — above all, that Excellence should 
be looked for rather in the Whole than in the Parts, — 
such and other such canons have been always steadily 
regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, 
and a far larger number rejected, have been carefully 
and repeatedly considered ; and that he has been aided 
throughout by two friends of independent and exer- 
cised judgment, besides the distinguished person ad- 
dressed in the Dedication. It is hoped that by this 






-^^t—^.f^' 




Preface xi 

procedure the volume has been freed from that one- 
sidedness which must beset individual decisions : — 
but for the final choice the Editor is alone respon- 
sible. 

It would obviously have been invidious to apply the 
standard aimed at in this Collection to the Living. 
Nor, even in the cases Avhere this might be done with- 
out offence, does it appear wise to attempt to antici- 
pate the verdict of the Future on our contemporaries. 
Should the book last, poems by Tennyson, Bryant, 
, Clare, Lowell, and others, will no doubt claim and 
obtain their place among the best. But tlie Editor 
trusts that this will be effected by other hands, and in 
days far distant. 

Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of 
all accessible poets not contained in it, and the best 
Anthologies of different periods, have been twice sys- 
tematically read through : and it is hence improbable 
that any omissions which may be regretted are due to 
oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a 
very few instances (specified in the notes) where a 
stanza has been omitted. The omissions have been 
risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a 
closer lyrical unity : and, as essentially opposed to this 
unity, extracts, obviously such, are excluded. In re- 
gard to the text, the pui-pose of the book has appeared 
to justify the choice of the most poetical version, wher- 
ever more than one exists : and much labour has been 
given to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, 
and punctuation, to the greatest advantage. 

For the permission under which the copyright pieces 
are inserted, thanks are due to the respective Pro- 
prietors, without whose liberal concurrence the schema 
of the collection would have been defeated. 





xii Preface 

In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective 
order has been attempted. The English mind has 
passed through phases of thought and cultivation so 
various and so opposed during these three centuries 
of Poetry, that a rapid passage betvfeen Old and New, 
like rapid alteration of the eye's focus in looking at 
the landscape, will always be wearisome and hurtful 
to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been there- 
fore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the 
ninety years closing about i5i6, II thence to 1700, 
III to 1 800, IV to the half-century just ended. Or ' 
looking at the Poets who more or less give each 
portion its distinctive character, they might be called 
the Books of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Words- 
worth. The volume, in this respect, so far as the 
limitations of its range allow, accurately reflects the 
natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly 
chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collec- 
tion aiming at instruction than at pleasure, and the 
Wisdom which comes through Pleasure : — within 
each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in 
gradations of feeling or subject. The development 
of the symphonies of Mozart and Beethoven has been 
here thought of as a model, and nothing placed with- 
out careful consideration. And it is hoped that the 
contents of this Anthology will thus be found to 
present a certain imity, 'as episodes,' in the noble 
language of Shelley, ' to that great Poem which all 
poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great 
mind, have built up since the beginning of the world. ' 
As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he 
may add without egotism, that he has found the vague 
general verdict of popular Fame more just than those 
have thought, who, with too severe a criticism, would 






.jasz 



t-4e- 



Pi-eface xih 

confine judgments on Poetry to ' the selected few of 
many generations. ' Not many appear to have gained 
reputation without some gift or performance that, in 
due degree, deserved it : and if no verses by certain 
writers who show less strength than sweetness, or 
more thought than mastery in expression, are printed in 
this volume, it should not be imagined that they have 
been excluded without much hesitation and regret, — 
far less that they have been slighted. Throughout 
this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few 
have been honoured with the name Poet, and have 
not possessed a skill in words, a sympathy with beauty, 
a tenderness of feeling, or seriousness in reflection, 
which render their works, although never perhaps 
attaining that loftier and finer excellence here required, 
better worth reading than much of what fills the 
scanty hours that most men spare for self-improve- 
ment, or for pleasure in any of its more elevated and 
permanent forms. — And if this be true of even me- 
diocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted 
to the best ! Like the fabled fountain of the Azores, 
but with a more various power, the magic of this Art 
can confer on each period of life its appropriate bless- 
ing : on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, 
on age, Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures ' more 
golden than gold,' leading us in higher and healthier 
ways than those of the world, and interpreting to us 
the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for her- 
self. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed 
with success, may be heard throughout the following 
pages : — wherever the Poets of England are honoured, 
wherever the dominant language of the world is 
spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience. 



jr 




^^^^^£^0- 




CONTENTS 

Page 

Dedication .... i . «... vii 

Preface « . . . ix 

Book I i 

Book II , - ^ . . 50 

Book III 129 

Book IV ... 200 

Notes 375 

Index of Writers ' . . 395 

Index of First Lines , 398 






^ 





BOOK FIRST 



«K 



SPJi/NG 

SPRING, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant 
king ; 
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring. 
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The palm and n-ay make country houses gay. 
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, 
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. 
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, 
In every street these tunes our ears do greet. 
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! 
Spring ! the sweet Spring ! 

T. Nash 
I 




t 






Tlie Golden Treasury 



SUMMONS TO LOVE 

PHOEBUS, arise ! 
And paint the sable skies 
With azure, white, and red : 
Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed 
That she may thy career with roses spread : 
The nightingales thy coming each where sing ; 
Make an eternal spring ! 
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead ; 
Spread forth thy golden hair 
In larger locks than tliou wast wont before, 
And emperor-like decore 
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair : 
Chase hence the ugly night 
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light 

— This is that happy mom, 

That day, long-wished day 

Of all my life so dark, 

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn 

And fates my hopes betray,) 

Which, purely white, deserves 

An everlasting diamond should it mark. 

This is the morn should bring unto this grove 

My Love, to hear and recompense my love. 

Fair King, who all preserves. 

But show thy blushing beams, 

And thou two sweeter eyes 

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams 

Did once thy heart surprise. 

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise : 

If that ye winds would hear 







-U^ii^'. 



hj 



Bool' F'n'st 

A voice surpassing far Amphioii's lyre, 

Your furious chiding stay ; 

Let Zephyr only breathe, 

And with her tresses play. 

— The winds all silent are. 

And Phoebus in his chair 

Ensaffroning sea and air 

Makes vanish eveiy star : 

Night like a drankard reels 

Beyond the hills, to shun his i^aming wheels : 

The fields mth flowers are deck'd in every hue. 

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue ; 

Here is the pleasant place — 

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas ! 

VV, Dntmmond of Hawthoi'iidcn 



TIME AND LOVE 



WHEN I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age ; 
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed, 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 

When I have seen the hungiy ocean gain 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
And the firm soil win of the watery main. 
Increasing store with loss, and loss witli store ; 

When I have seen such interchange of state, 
Or state itself confounded to decay, 
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — 
That Time will come and take my Love away : 






4 . The Golden Treasury 

— This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 

W. Shakespeare 



SINCE brass, nor stone,nor earth, nor boundless sea, 
But sad mortality o'ersways their power. 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea. 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 






O how shall summer's honey breath hold out 
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
When roclis impregnable are not so stout. 
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays ? 

O fearful meditation ! where, alack ! 
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid ? 
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back, 
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 

! none, unless this miracle have might. 

That in black ink my love may still shine bright 

W. Shakespeare 



4, •' 




THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 
LOVE 

COME live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dale and field. 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 




-'?aSS«ay^'«J5 



Book First 

There will we sit upon the rocks 
And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
■By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 



#><- 




There will I make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool. 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull. 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy buds 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
As precious as the gods do eat, 
Shall on an ivory table be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May-morning : 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my Love. 

C. Marlowe 





,.'- .----^^^<v J 



^a 






The Golden Treasury 



A MADRIGAL 

CRABBED Age and Youth 
Cannot live together : 
Youth is full of pleasance, 
Age is full of care ; 
Y outh like summer mom, 
Age like winter weather, 
Youth like summer brave. 
Age like winter bare : 
Youth is full of sport. 
Age's breath is short, 
Youth is nimble, Age is lame : 
Youth is hot and bold, 
Age is weak and cold. 
Youth is wild, and Age is tame ; — 
Age, I do abhor thee. 
Youth, I do adore thee ; 
O ! my Love, my Love is young ! 
Age, I do defy thee — 
O sweet shepherd, hie thee. 
For methinks thou stay'st too long. 

VV. Shakespear6 



6d^' ■ 



VII 

'NDER the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And tune his meriy note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 



U' 




'(9/ Diy Love^ my Love zs youji^.^^ ^'Ps.gQ 6. 




The Golden Treasury 




PRESENT IN ABSENCE 

ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation 
Against thy strength, 
Distance, and length ; 
Do what thou canst for alteration : 
For hearts of truest mettle 
Absence doth join, and Time doth settle. 

Who loves a mistress of such quality, 
He soon hath found 
Affection's ground 
Beyond time, place, and all mortality. 
To hearts that cannot vary 
'Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry. 

By absence this good means I gain, 
That I can catch her, 
Where none can watch her. 
In some close comer of my brain : 
There I embrace and kiss her ; 
And so I both enjoy and miss her. 
Anon. 



ABSENCE 

BEING your slave, what should I do but tend 
Upon the hours and time of your desire ? 
I have no precious time at all to spend 
Nor ser\'ices to do, till you require : 




-S9* 



■-^ 




Book First 

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour 
Whilst I, my sovei-eign, watch the clock for you. 
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour 
When you have bid your servant once adieu : 

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, 
But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought 
Save, where you are, how happy you make those ; 

So true a fool is love, that in your will, 
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. 

W. Shakespeare 



HOW like a winter hath my absence been 
From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting yearl 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen. 
What old December's bareness everywhere ! 

And yet this time removed was summer's time : 
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase. 
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime 
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease : 

Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me 
But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit ; 
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 

Or if they sing, 't is with so dull a cheer, 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. 
W. Shakespeare 









The Golden Treasury 




XII 
A CONSOLATION 

WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 
I all alone beweep my outcast state, 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate ; 

"Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featured like him, like him with friends possest, 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
"With what I most enjoy contented least ; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
Haply I think on Thee — and then my state, 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 

For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings' 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

\V, Shakespeare 



XIII 

THE UNCHANGEABLE 

O NEVER say that I was false of heart. 
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify : 
As easy might I from myself depart 
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie ; 

That is my home of love ; if I have ranged, 
Like him that travels, I return again, 




j0m>- 





,_.SSSg^i.; 




-^mifW 



^m^ 




Book First 1 

Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, 
So that myself bring water for my stain. 

Never beUeve, though in my nature reign'd 
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 
That it could so preposterously be stain'd 
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good : 

For nothing this wide universe I call, 
Save thou, my rose : in it thou art my all. 

W. Shakespeare 



TO me, fair Friend, you never can be old, 
For as you were when first your eye I eyed 
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride ; 

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn tum'd 
In process of the season have I seen. 
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, 
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. 

Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, 
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ; 
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived : 

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, — 
Ere you were bom, was beauty's summer dead. 

W. Shakespeare 





'i^'rf 






The Golden Treasury 

XV 
DIAPHENIA 

DIAPHENIA like the daffadowndiUy, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily, 
Heigh ho, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as my lambs 
Are beloved of their dams ; 
How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me. 

Diaphenia like the spreading roses. 
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, 

Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the sun's life-giving power ; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move roe. 

Diaphenia like to all things blessed 

When all thy praises are expressed, 
Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 

As the birds do love the spring, 

Or the bees their careful king : 
Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me ! 

H. Constable 

XVI 

ROSALINE 

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere 
Where all imperial glory shines, 
Of selfsame colour is her hair 
Whether unfolded, or in twines : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 







tri' 




Book First 

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
Resembling heaven by every winlc ; 
The Gods do fear whenas they glow. 
And I do tremble when I think 
Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud 
That beautifies Aurora's face, 
Or like the silver crimson shroud 
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace ; 

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 
Her lips are like two budded roses 
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, 
Within which bounds she balm encloses 
Apt to entice a deity : 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Her neck is like a stately tower 
Where Love himself imprison'd lies, 
To watch for glances every hour 
From her divine and sacred eyes : 

Heigh ho, for Rosaline ! 
Her paps are centres of delight. 
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, 
Where Nature moulds the dew of light 
To feed perfection with the same : 

Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
With marble white, vidth sapphire blue 
Her body every way is fed, 
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! 



14 



The Golden Treasury 



Nature herself her shape admires ; 
The Gods are wounded in her sight ; 
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires 
And at her eyes his brand doth light : 
Heigh ho, would she were mine ! 

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan 
The absence of fair Rosaline, 
Since for a fair there 's fairer none, 
Nor for her virtues so divine : 
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ; 
Heigh ho, my heart ! would God that she were mine 1 

T. Lodge 



COLIN 

BEAUTY sat bathing by a spring 
Where fairest shades did hide her ; 
Tlie winds blew calm, the birds did sing, 

The cool streams ran beside her. 
My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye 

To see what was forbidden : 
But better memory said, fie ! 
So vain desire was chidden' : — 
Hey nonny nonny O I 
Hey nonny nonny ! 

Into a slumber then I fell, 

When fond imagination 
Seemed to see, but could not tell 

Her feature or her fashion. 
But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile. 

And sometimes fall a-weeping, 










Book First 

So I awaked, as wise this Avhile 
As when I fell a-sleeping : — 

Hey nonny nonny O ! 
Hey nonny nonny ! 
/ The Shepherd Tonie 



15 





XVITI 

TO HIS LOVE 

SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day ? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date : 

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd : 
And eveiy fair from fair sometime declines. 
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd. 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; 
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see. 
So long lives tliis, and this gives life to thee. 

W. Shakespeare, 

XIX 

TO HIS LOVE 

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights ; 









l6 The Golden Treasury 

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have exprest 
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 

So all their praises are b\it prophecies 
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring ; 
And for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth to sin; 



For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 
W. Shakespeare 



LOVE'S PERJURIES 

ON a day, alack the day ! 
Love, whose month is ever May, 
Spied a blossom passing fair 
Playing in the wanton air : 
Through the velvet leaves the wind 
All unseen 'gan passage find ; 
That the lover, sick to death, 
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. 
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; 
Air, would I might triumph so ! 
But, alack, my hand is sworn 
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ; 
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet 
Do not call it sin in me 
That I am forsworn for thee : 



CJUW . Ml Ji ll ■ UK m* 






17 



Thoii for whom e'en Jove would swear 
Juno but an Ethiope were, 
And deny himself for Jove, 
Turning mortal for thy love. 

W. Shakespeare 

xxr 
A SUPPLICATION 

FORGET not yet the tried intent 
Of such a truth as I have meant ; 
My great travail so gladly spent, 

Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet when first began 
The weary life ye know, since whan 
The suit, the service none tell can ; 
Forget not yet ! 

Forget not yet the great assays, 
The cniel wrong, the scornful ways, 
The painful patience in delays. 

Forget not yet ! 



Forget not ! O, forget not this, 
How long ago hath been, and is 
The mind that never meant amiss — 
Forget not yet I 

Forget not then thine own approved 
The which so long hath thee so loved. 
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved — 
Forget not this ! 

Sir T. Wyat 
2 






I 




18 The Golden Treasury 

XXII 

ro AURORA 

OIF thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm, 
And dost prejudge thy bhss, and spoil my rest ; 
Then thou wouldst melt the ice out of thy breast 
And thy relenting heart would kindly warm. 

O if thy pride did not our joys controul, 
What world of loving wonders shouldst thou see ! 
For if I saw thee once transform'd in me, 
Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul ; 

Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine, 
And if that aught mischanced thou shouldst not moan 
Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone ; 
No, I would have my share in what were thine : 

And whilst we thus should make our sorrows on^ 
This happy harmony would make them none. 

W. Alexander, Earl of Sterlim 




J^2S 



XXIII 

TRUE LOVE 

LET me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove : — 

O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 



1*^>V 



.C 





-2i^d 



Book First 



19 




ft is the star to eveiy wandering bark 

Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. 

Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom : — 

If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

W. Shakespeare 

XXIV 

A DITTY 

MY true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 
By just excliange one to tlie other given : 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. 
There never was a better bargain driven : 
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 

His heart in me keeps him and me in one. 
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides : 
He loves my heart, for once it was his owai, 
I cherish his because in me it bides : 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. 
Sir P. Sidney 




20 The Golden Treasury 

Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain 
Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love. 

Were I as high as heaven above the plain, 
And you, my Love, as humble and as low 
As are the deepest bottoms of the main, 
Whereso'er you were, \vith you my love should go. 

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, 

My love should shine on you like to the sun, 

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes 

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were donSt 

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you, 

Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you. : . i) 

y. Sylvester j 

XXVI 

CARPE DIEM 

O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ? 
O stay and hear ! your true-love 's coming 
That can sing both high and low ; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
Journeys end in lovers' meeting — 
Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love ? 't is not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What 's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty, — j^,, 

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-t\veniy, ^ 

Youth 's a stuff will not endure. ^ 

W. Shakespeare 



\ 




.^J^isHm^ 



Book First 




WINTER 

WHEN icicles hang by the wall 
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in pail ; 
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul. 
Then nightly sings the staring owl 

Tuwhoo 1 
Tuwhit ! tuwhoo ! A merry note ! 
While greasy Joan doth keel the poL 

When all around the wind doth blow, 
And coughing drowns the parson's saw. 

And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; 

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl — 

Then nightly sings the staring owl 
Tuwhoo ! 

Tuwhit ! tuwhoo ! A merry note ! 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

W. Shakespeare 



THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang 
Upon tliose boughs which shake against the cold. 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west. 




w\ 



^A 



The Golden Trt^asiiry 




Which by and by black night doth take away, 
Deatli's second self, that seals up all in rest. 

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, 
Tliat on the ashes of his youth doth lie 
As the deathbed whereon it must expire. 
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by : 

— This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love mora 

strong, 
To love that well which thou n, t leave erelong. 

W. Shakespeare 

XXIX 

REMEMBk ANCE 

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ; 

Then can I drown an eye, imused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe. 
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay as if not paid before : 

' — But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

W. Shakespeare 








Book First 



23 




XXX 

REVOLUTIONS 

LIKE as the waves make towards the pebbled shore 
So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 
Each changing place witli that which goes before, 
In sequent toil all fonvards do contend. 

Nativity once in the n of light 

Crawls to maturity, v ifirewith being crovm'd. 

Crooked eclipses 'ga, iiis glory fight, 

And Time that gave, .1 now his gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the f jurish set on youth, 
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; 
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth. 
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand 
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

W. Shakespeare 




FAREWELL ! thou art too dear for my possessing 
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing, 
My bonds in thee are all determinate. 

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? 
And for that riches where is my deserving ? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 
And so my patent back again is swen'ing. 





.r^^mk' 



-=S?S^,- 






::s^^ 




24 



77;i? Goldeii Treasioy 



Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing, 
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; 
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing. 
Comes home again, on better judgment making. 

Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter ; 
In sleep, a king ; but waking, no such matter. 
VV. Shakespeare 




XXXII 

THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION 

THEY that have power to hurt, and will do none, 
That do not do the thing they most do show. 
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, — 

They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces, 
And husband nature's riches from expense ; 
They are the lords and owners of their faces. 
Others, but stewards of their excellence. 



\/^ 





The summer's flower is to the summer sweet. 
Though to itself it only live and die ; 
But if that flower with base' infection meet. 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; 
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 

W. Shakespeare 



■,-..;.?■: ■.5«,fe>'^<>-'k?s^ 






Book First 
XXXIII 

THE LOVER'S APPEAL 

AND wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! for shame. 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame. 
And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and woe among : 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus ! 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
That hath given thee my heart 
Never for to depart 
Neither for pain nor smart : 
And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus, 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee ? 
Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
And vrilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay ! say nay ! 

Sir T. Wyat 



25 




^d^sCF 





^r 



26 The Golden Treasury 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

AS it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of May. 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 
Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 
Trees did grow and plants did spring, 
Every thing did banish moan 
Save the nightingale alone. 
She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
Lean'd her breast against a thorn, 
And there sung the dolefuUest ditty 
That to hear it was great pity. 
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry ; 
Tereu, tereu, by and by : 
That to hear her so complain 
Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 
For her griefs so lively shown 
Made me think upon mine own. 
— Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain. 
None takes pity on thy pain : 
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, 
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 
King Pandion, he is dead. 
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead : 
All thy fellow birds do sing 
Careless of thy sorrowing : 
Even so, poor bird, like thee 
None alive will pity me. 

R. Barnefield 




'¥ 
'% 







_<»aete 




Book First 



27 




CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night. 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness bom, 
Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; 
With dark forgetting of my care return. 

And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : 
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
Without the torment of the night's untruth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
To model forth the passions of the morrow ; 
Never let rising Sun approve you liars 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow : 

Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, 
And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 

6'. Danid 



MADRIGAL 

TAKE, O take those lips away 
That so sweetly were forsworn. 
And those eyes, the break of day. 
Lights that do mislead the mom : 
But my kisses bring again. 
Bring again — ■ 
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, 
Seal'd in vain ! 

W. Shakespeare 











The Golden Treasury 

XXXVII 

LOVE'S FAREWELL 

SINCE there 's no help, come let us kiss and part,— 
Nay I have done, you get no more of me ; 
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free ; 

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows. 
And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath. 
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death. 
And iimocence is closing up his eyes, 

•^— Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over. 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! 

M. Drayton 



XXXVIII 

TO HIS LUTE 

MY lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
With thy green mother in some shady grove. 
When immelodious winds but made thee move. 
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. 

Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve, 
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow, 








52- 




m 



Book First, 

Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above. 
What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 

Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more. 
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear ; 
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear ; 
For which be silent as in woods before : 



25 




Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. 

W. Drummond, 



XXXIX 

BUND LOVE 

OME ! what eyes hath love put in my head 
Which have no correspondence with true sight: 
Or if they have, where is my judgment fled 
That censures falsely what they see aright ? 

If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, 
What means the world to say it is not so ? 
If it be not, then love doth well denote 
Love's eye is not so true as all men's : No, 

How can it ! O how can love's eye be true, 
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears ? 
No marvel then though I mistake my view : 
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 



O cunning Love ! with tears thou keep'st me blind. 
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find ! 
W. Shakespeare 





30 



The Golden Treasury 




,a^ /; i^ 





THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS 

WHILE that the sun with his beams hot 
Scorched tlie fruits in vale and mountain, 
Philon the shepherd, late forgot, 
Sitting beside a crystal fountain. 
In shadow of a green oak-tree 
Upon his pipe this song play'd he : 
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untnie Love, 
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ; 
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 

So long as I was in your sight 
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure j 
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd 
Burning in flames beyond all measure : 

— Three days endured your love to me, 

And it was lost in other three ! 
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ; 
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 

Another Shepherd you did see 
To whom your heart was soon enchained ; 
Full soon your love was leapt from me, 
Full soon my place he had obtained. 

Soon came a third, your love to win, 

And we were out and he was in. 
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 
Untrue Love, untrae Love, adieu Love ; 
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 








Book First 31 

Sure you have made me passing glad 

That you your mind so soon removed, 

Before that I the leisure had 

To choose you for my best beloved : 
For all your love was past and done 
Two days before it was begun : — 

Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 

Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love ; 

Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. 
Anon, 

XLI 
A RENUNCIATION 

IF women could be fair, and yet not fond, 
Or that their love were fii-m, not fickle stiU, 
I would not marvel that they make men bond 
By service long to purchase their good-will ; 
But when I see how frail those creatures are, 
I muse that men forget themselves so far. 

To mark the choice they make, and how they change, 
How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan ; 
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, 
These gentle birds that fly from man to man ; 
Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist. 
And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list ? 

Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both. 
To pass the time when nothing else can please. 
And train them to our lure with subtle oath. 
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease ; 
And then we say when we their fancy try, 
To play with fools, O what a fool was I ! 

E. Vere, Earl of Oxfora 







1 







32 



The Golden Treasury 



Mm.: 



B" 



■3^>^i , 



► LOW, blow, thou winter wind. 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen 

Because thou art not seen. 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot : 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remember'd not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

IV. Shakespears 

XLIII 

MADRIGAL 

MY thoughts hold mortal strife ; 
I do detest my life. 
And with lamenting cries 
Peace to my soul to bring 

Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize 
— But he, grim grinning King, 





Book First 



33 



"k 
m 





Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprize. 
Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb, 
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. 
IV. Drummond 



DIRGE OF LOVE 

COME away, come away. Death, 
And in sad cypres let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all \vith yew, 

O prepare it ! 
My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet 
On my black cofiin let there be strewn ; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save. 

Lay me, O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave. 
To weep there. 

W. Shakespeare 

XLV 

FIDELE 

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 








&^ 





V. . i-^ 't-^^ 




34 The Golden Treasury 

Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning flash 

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 

Thou hast finish 'd joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

W. Shakespeare 



A SEA DIRGE 

FULL fathom five thy father Hes : 
Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 
Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange ; 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
Hark ! now I hear them, — 
Ding, dong, Bell. 

W. Shakespeare 



fti 





I.' 



Book First 



35 





A LAND DIRGE 

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren. 
Since o'er shady groves they hover 
And with leaves and flowers do cover 
The friendless bodies of unburied men. 
Call unto his funeral dole 
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole 
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm 
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm ; 
But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men, 
For with his nails he '11 dig them up again. 

y. Webster 

XLVIII 

POST MORTEM 

IF Thou survive my well-contented day 
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall 
cover, 
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover ; 

Compare them with the bettering of the time, 
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, 
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme 
Exceeded by the height of happier men. 

O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought — 
' Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age, 
A dearer birth than this his love had brought, 
To march in ranks of better equipage ' 






.fff^ 




j6 T/m Golden Treasury 

But since he died, and poets better prove, 
Theirs for their style I '11 read, his for his love.' 
W. Shakespeare 



XLIX 

THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH 

NO longer mourn for roe when I am dead 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
Give warning to the world, that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell ; 




Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so. 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot 
If thinking on me then should make you woe. 



'":pi 



•m 



O if, I say, you look upon this verse 
When I perhaps compounded am with clay, 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, 
But let your love even with my life decay ; 

I^st the wise world should look into your moan, 
And mock you with me after I am gone. 

W. Shakespeare 



MADRIGAL 

TELL me where is Fancy bred, 
Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
How begot, how nourished ? 
Reply, reply. 




'^^^^^^^^^: 





Book First 

It is engender'd in the eyes, 
With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies : 
Let us all ring fancy's knell ; 
I '11 begin it, — Ding, dong, belL 
— Ding, dong, bell. 

W. Shakespeare 



CUPID AND CAMPASPE 

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd 
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid : 
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows ; 
Loses them too ; then down he throws 
The coral of his lip, the rose 
Gro%ving on 's cheek (but none knows how) / 
With these, the crystal of his brow, 
And then the dimple on his chin ; 
All these did my Campaspe win : 
At last he set her both his eyes — 
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love ! has she done this to thee ? 
What shall, alas ! become of me ? 

J. Lylye 



PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day, 
With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft 

To give my Love good-morrow ! 
Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
Notes from the lark I '11 borrow ; 



37 








-''« 



jS The Golden Treasury 

Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, 
To give my Love good-morrow ; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Notes from them both I '11 borrow. 



Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, 

Sing birds in eveiy furrow ; 
And from each hill, let music shrill 
Give my fair Love good-morrow ! 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow ; 
To give my Love good-morrow 
Sing birds in every furrow ! 

T. Heywood 




PROTHALAMION 

CALM was the day, and through the trembling ail 
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play — 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titan's beams, which tlien did glister fair ; 
When I (whom sullen care. 
Through discontent of my long fnutless stay 
In princes' court, and expectation vain 
Of idle hopes, whicli still do fly away 
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain) 
Walk'd forth to ease my pain 
Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames ; 
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems. 
Was painted all with variable flowers, 
And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems 







Book First 

Fit to deck maidens' bowers, 

And cro\vn their paramours 

Against the bridal day, which is not long : 

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

There in a meadow by the river's side 
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, 
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby. 
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied 
As each had been a bride ; 
And each one had a little wicker basket 
Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously. 
In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket, 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously 
The tender stalks on high. 
Of every sort which in that meadow grew 
They gather'd some ; the violet, pallid blue. 
The little daisy that at evening closes, 
The virgin lily and the primrose true : 
With store of veiineil roses. 
To deck their bridegrooms' posies 
Against the bridal day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

With that I saw two swans of goodly hue 

Come softly swimming down along the lee ; 

Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; 

The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow 

Did never whiter show. 

Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be 

For love of Leda, whiter did appear ; 

Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, 

Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near j 

So purely white they were 




sss=^ 




40 



The Golden Treasury 





That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, 
Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare 
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 
And mar their beauties bright 
That shone as Heaven's light 
Against their bridal day, which was not long ; 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill, 
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood 
As they came floating on the crystal flood ; 
Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still 
Their wondering eyes to fill j 
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair 
Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem 
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team ; 
For sure they did not seem 
To be begot of any earthly seed. 
But rather angels, or of angels' breed ; 
Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say, 
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 
The earth did fresh array ; 
So fresh they seem'd as day. 
Even as their bridal day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 





Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield. 
All which upon those goodly birds they tlirew 
And all the waves did strew. 
That like old Peneus' waters they did seem 




Book First 



41 






When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore 
Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, 
That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store, 
Like a bride's chamber-floor. 

Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound 
Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, 
The which presenting all in trim array. 
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd ; 
Whilst one did sing this lay 
Prepared against that day, 
Against their bridal day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

' Ye gentle birds ! the world's fair ornament. 

And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 

Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 

Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content 

Of your love's complement ; 

And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, 

With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, 

Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 

All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 

P'or ever to assoil. 

Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, 

And blessed plenty wait upon your board ; 

And let your bed with pleasures chaste aboim^ 

That fruitful issue may to you afford 

Which may your foes confound, 

And make your joys redound 

Upon your bridal day, which is not long : 

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my soi«^." 

So ended she ; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that her undersong. 



r fi. 




i4. "''" 





'i^^ 







■1 






42 The Golden T^-easiiry 

Which said their bridal day should not be long ; 
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birds did pass along 
Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low, 
As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue. 
Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 
Making his stream nm slow. 
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend 
The lesser stars. So they, enranged Avell, 
Did on those two attend, 
And their best service lend 
Against their wedding day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 

At length they all to merry London came. 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
That to me gave this life's first native source, 
Though from another place I take my name, 
An house of ancient fame : 

There when they came whereas those bricky towers 
The which on Thames broad aged back do ride. 
Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, 
There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide. 
Till they decay'd through pride ; 
Next whereunto there stands a stately place. 
Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace 
Of that great lord, which tlierein wont to dwell. 
Whose want too well now feels my friendless case} 
But ah! here fits not well 
Old woes, but joys to tell 
Against the bridal day, which is not long ; 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till lend my song. 




Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 

Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder, 

Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder. 

And Hercules' two pillars standing near 

Did make to quake and fear : 

Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry! 

That fiUest England with thy triumphs' fame, 

Joy have thou of thy noble victory, 

And endless happiness of thine own name 

That promiseth the same ; 

That through thy prowess and ^'ictorious arms 

Thy country may be freed from foreign harms. 

And great Eliza's glorious name may ring 

Through all the world, fiU'd with thy wide alarms 

Which some brave Muse may sing 

To ages following. 

Upon tlie bridal day, which is not long : 

Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 



From those high towers this noble lord issuing 
Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair 
In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair, 
Descended to the river's open viewing 
With a great train ensuing. 
Above the rest were goodly to be seen 
Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature, 
Beseeming well the bower of any queen. 
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature 
Fit for so goodly stature. 

That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight 
Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright ; 
" They two, forth pacing to the river's side. 
Received those two fair brides, their love's delighi 
Which, at th' appointed tide. 
Each one did make his bride 






44 



The Golden Treasury 



fe/'?l 






Against their bridal day, which is not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. 
-£". Spettser 



THE HAPPY HEART 

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers t 
O sweet content ! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? 

O punishment ! 
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ? 
O sweet content ! O sweet O sweet content ! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny I 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 

O sweet content ! 
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears 1 

O punishment ! 
Then he that patiently want's burden bears 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! 
O sweet content ! O sweet O sweet content ! 
Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; 
Honest labour bears a lovely face ; 
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! 

T. Dekker 



THIS Life, which seems so fair, 
Is like a bubble blown up in the air 






Book First. 4 

By sporting children's breath, 
Who chase it every where 
And strive who can most motion it bequeath. 
And though it sometimes seem of its own might 
Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there. 
And firm to hover in that empty height. 
That only is because it is so light. 
■ — But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; 
For when 'tis most admired, in a thought, 
Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought. 
W. Drummond 

LVI 
SOUL AND BODY 

POOR Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array. 
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth. 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? 

Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more : — 

So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, 
And death once dead, there 's no more dying then. 
W. Shakespeare 



w« 



f 




giw .^4^ 



"r^^m 



46 



TAe Golden Treasury 



LIFE 

THE World 's a bubble, and the Life of Man 
Less than a span : 
In his conception wretched, from the woirb 

So to the tomb ; 
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years 

With cares and fears. 
Who then to frail mortality shall trust, 
But limns on water, or but writes in dust. 

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, 

What life is best ? 
Courts are but only superficial schools 

To dandle fools : 
The rural parts are tum'd into a den 

Of savage men ; 
And where 's a city from foul vice so free, 
But may be term'd the worst of all the three ? 

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed. 

Or pains his head : 
Those that live single, take it for a curse, 

Or do things worse : 
Some would have children : tbose that have them, moaq 

Or wish them gone : 
What is it, then, to have, or have no wife, 
But single thraldom, or a double strife ? 

Our own affection still at home to please 

Is a disease : 
To cross the seas to anj' foreign soil. 

Peril and toil : 



'^ St;'" 




Book First 4J 

Wars \vith their noise affright us ; when they cease, 

We are worse in peace ; — 
What then remains, but that we still should cry 
For being bom, or, being born, to die ? 

Lord Bacon 

LVIII 

THE LESSONS OF NATURE 

OF this fair volume which we World do name 
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame. 
We clear might read the art and msdom rare : 

Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, 

His providence extending everywhere. 

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 

In every page, no period' of the same. 

But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold. 
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving wliat is best, 
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 

Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 

W. DruvimonJ 




■"^ 'W 





DOTH then the world go thus, doth all thus movel 
Is this the justice which on Earth we find ? 
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind ? 
Are these your influences, Powers above ? 






48 The Golden Treasury 

Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind, 
Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove ; 
And they who thee, poor idol Virtue ! love, 
Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind. 

Ml ! if a Providence doth sway this all 

Why should best minds groan under most distress ? 

Or why should pride humility make thrall, 

And injuries the innocent oppress ? 

Heavens ! hinder, stop this fate ; or grant a time 
When good may have, as well as bad, their prime ! 
W. Drutnmond 



THE WORLD'S WAY 

TIRED with all these, for restful death I cry — 
As, to behold desert a beggar bom, 
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity. 
And purest faith unhappily forsworn. 

And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, 
And strength by limping sway disabled, 

And art made tongue-tied by authority. 
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity. 
And captive Good attending captain 111 : — 

— Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, 
Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. 

W. Shakespeart 








Book First 4J 



SAINT JOHN BAPTIST 

THE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King, 
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts Nvild, 
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
Which he more harmless found than man, and mild. 

His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, 
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ; 
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing 
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. 

There burst he forth : All ye whose hopes rely 
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn, 
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn ! 
— Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry ? 

Only the echoes, which he made relent. 
Rung from their flinty caves, Repent ! Repent ! 
W. Dnimmond 










BOOK SECOND 

LXII 

ODE 
ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NA TIVITf 

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King 
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring ; 
For so the lioly sages once did sing 
That he our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable. 

And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty 

Wherewith he Avont at Heaven's high council-table 

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 

He laid aside ; and, here with us to be, 

Forsoolc the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God ? 






Book Second 



Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain 
To welcome him to this his new abode. 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, 
Hath took no print of the approaching light, 
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons 
bright? 



See how from far, upon the eastern road. 

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet : 

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode 

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet. 

And join thy voice unto the angel quire 

From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 

THE HYMN 

It was the winter wild 

While the heaven-born Child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; 

Nature in awe to him 

Had doff'd her gaudy trim. 

With her great Master so to sympathize : 

It was no season then for her 

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 



Only with speeches fair 

She woos the gentle air 

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; 

And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame, 

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; 

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 

Should look so near upon her foul deformities 





aj^Sc 



^h^ 



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52 



77if Golden Treasury 




But he, her fears to cease, 

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; 

She, crown'd with ohve green, came softly sliding 

Down through the turning sphere 

His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 

And waving wide her myrtle wand. 

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

No war, or battle's sound 

Was heard the world around : 

The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; 

The hooked chariot stood 

Unstain'd with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 

And kings sat still with awful eye. 

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night 

Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began : 

The winds, with wonder whist. 

Smoothly the waters kist 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean — 

Who now hath quite forgot to rave. 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave 

The stars, with deep amaze, 

Stand fix'd in stedfast gaze. 

Bending one way their precious influence ; 

And will not take their flight 

For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer that often wam'd them thence ; 

But in their glimmering orbs did glow 

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 





Book Second 



53 



And though the shady gloom 

Had given day her room, 

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 

And hid his head for shame. 

As his inferior flame 

The new-enlighten'd world no more should need : 

He saw a greater Sun appear 

Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn 

Or ere the point of dawn 

Sate simply chatting in a rustic row ; 

Full little thought they then 

That the migl ty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below ; 

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

When such music sweet 
» Their hearts and ears did greet 
As never was by mortal finger strook — 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise. 
As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
The air, such pleasure loth to lose. 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close 

Nature that heard such sound 

Beneath the hollow round 

Of Cynthia's seat the aery region thrilling, 

Now was almost won 

To think her part was done. 

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; 

She knew such liarmony alone 

Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 




J^J 






54 



The Golden Treasury 



At last surrounds their sight 

A globe of circular light 

That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd ; 

The helmed Cherubim 

And sworded Seraphim 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, 

Harping in loud and solemn quire 

Witli unexpressive notes, to Heayen's new-born Heii; 

Such music (as 'tis said) 

Before was never made 

But when of old the sons of morning sung, 

Wliile the Creator great 

His constellations set 

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung ; 

And cast the dark foundations deep, 

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. 

Ring out, ye ciystal spheres ! 

Once bless our human ears. 

If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 

And let your silver chime 

Move in melodious time ; 

And let the base of heaven's deep organ blow ; 

And with your ninefold harmony 

Make up full concert to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 

Enwrap our fancy long. 

Time will nm back, and fetch the age of gold ; 

And speckled vanity 

Will sicken soon and die. 

And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; 

And Hell itself will pass away. 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 






But wisest Fate says No ; 

This must not yet be so ; 

The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 

That on the bitter cross 

Must redeem our loss ; 

So both himself and us to glorify : 

Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep 

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder thro' the deep ; 

With such a horrid clang 

As on mount Sinai rang 

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake : 

The aged Earth aghast 

With terrour of that blast 

Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 

When, at the world's last session. 

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne 

And then at last our bliss 

Full and perfect is, 

But now begins ; for from this happy day 

The old Dragon, under ground 

In straiter limits bound. 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, 

Swindges the scaly horrour of his folded taiL 




itSiS??^ - 



56 



The Golden Treasury 



^£§/ri 




The oracles are dumb ; 

No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving : 

Apollo from his shrine 

Can no more divine, 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving : 

No nightly trance or breathed spell 

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 

.The lonely mountains o'er 

And the resounding shore 

A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament ; 

From haunted spring and dale 

Edged with poplar pale 

The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 

With flower-inwoven tresses torn 

The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mouni. 

In consecrated earth 

And on the holy hearth 

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint ; 

In urns, and altars round 

A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; 

And the chill marble seems to sweat. 

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat 

Peor and Baalim 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine ; 
And mooned Ashtaroth 
Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn. 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz 
mourn. 





Book Second $'} 

And sullen Moloch, fled, 

Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 

In vain with cymbals' ring 

They call the grisly king, 

In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 

The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, hasten 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Memphian grove, or green. 

Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud :. 

Nor can he be at rest 

Within his sacred chest ; 

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; 

In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark 

The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.. 

He feels from Juda's land 

The dreaded infant's hand ; 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 

Nor all the gods beside 

Longer dare abide, 

Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : 

Our Babe, to show his Godhead true. 

Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 

So, when the sun in bed 

Curtain'd with cloudy red 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave. 

The flocking shadows pale 

Troop to the infernal jail, 

Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave ; 

And the yellow-skirted fays 

Fly after the night-steeds,leaving their moon -loved maze 



> 




5S 



Tlie Golden Treasury 




But see, the Virgin blest 

Hatli laid her Babe to rest ; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending : 

Heaven's youngest-teemed star 

Hath fixed her polish'd car. 

Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending : 

And all about the courtly stable 

Bright-hamess'd angels sit in order serviceable. 

J. Milton 



SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 
1687 

FROJVI Harmony, from heavenly Harmony 
This universal frame began : 
When Nature underneath a heap 

Of jarring atoms lay 
And could not heave her head, 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

Arise, ye more than dead ! 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry 
In order to their stations leap. 
And music's power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began : 
From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran. 
The diapason closing full in Man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 





59 

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms, 
With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal alarms. 
The double double double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries, ' Hark ! the foes come ; 
Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat ! ' 

The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers. 
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 

Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion 

For the fair disdainful dame. 

But oh! what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach 

The sacred organ's praise ? 
Notes inspiring holy love. 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 




Orpheus could lead the savage race, 
And trees uprooted left their place 
Sequacious of the lyre : 



.«sa 







60 



The Golden Treasury 



But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : 
When to her Organ vocal breath was given 
An Angel heard, and straight appear'd — 
Mistaking Earth for Heaven! 

Grand Chortts 
As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move, 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the blest above ; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour. 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And Music shall untune the sky. 

J. Dryden 

LXIV 

OlSf THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEM0N7 



thy slaughter'd Saints, whose 



AVENGE, O Lord ! 
bones 
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old 
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones 

Forget not : In thy book record their groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd 
Mother with infant do\vn the rocks. Their moans 

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 

v^^r all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 





^^ An aiigel heard and straight appear d — 
Mistaking earth for heaven.^'' — Page 60. 




:.«B9is!^SP* 




Book Second 

The triple tyrant, that from these may grow 
A hundred-fold, who, having leamt Thy way. 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

y. Milton 



HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELCS 
RETURN FROM IRELAND 

THE forward youth that would appear. 
Must now forsake his Muses deai^ 
Nor in the shadows sing 
His numbers languishing. 

T is time to leave the books in dust. 
And oil the unused armour's rust, 

Removing from the wall 

The corslet of the hall. 

So restless Cromwell could not cease 
In the inglorious arts of peace. 

But through adventurous war 

Urged his active star : 

And like the three-fork'd lightning first. 
Breaking the clouds where it was nurgt. 

Did thorough his own side 

His fiery way divide : 

For 't is all one to courage high 
The emulous, or enemy ; 

And with such, to enclose 

Is more than to oppose. 







62 The Golden Treasury 

Then burning through the air he went 
And palaces and temples rent ; 
And Caesar's head at last 
Did through his laurels blast. 

T is madness to resist or blame 
The face of angry heaven's flame ; 
And if we would speak true. 
Much to the Man is due 

Who, from his private gardens, where 
He lived reserved and austere 

(As if his highest plot 

To plant the bergamot) 

Could by industrious valour climb 
To ruin the great work of time, 

And cast the Kingdoms old 

Into another mould. 

Though Justice against Fate complain. 
And plead the ancient Rights in vain — ■ 
But those do hold or break 
As men are strong or weak. 

Nature, that hateth emptiness. 

Allows of penetration less. 

And therefore must make room 
Where greater spirits come. 

What field of all the civil war 
Where his were not the deepest scar ? 

And Hampton shows what part 

He had of wiser art. 




Book Second 

Where, twining subtle fears with hope, 
He wove a net of such a scope 

That Cliarles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case ; 



63 



^ 



That thence the Royal actor borne 
The tragic scaffold might adorn : 
While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands ; 

He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene, 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try ; 

Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite^ 
To vindicate his helpless right ; 

But bow'd his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 

—This was that memorable hour 
Which first assured the forced power: 

So when they did design 

The Capitol's first line, 

A Bleeding Head, where they begun. 
Did fright the architects to run ; 

And yet in that the State 

Foresaw its happy fate ! 

And now the Irish are ashamed 
To see themselves in one year tamed : 
So much one man can do 
That does both act and know. 




.-^ 




64 The Golden Treasury 

They can affirm his praises best, 
And have, though overcome, confest 
How good he is, how just 
And fit for highest trust ; 

Nor yet grown stiffer with command, 
But still in the Republic's hand — 

How fit he is to sway 

That can so well obey ! 

He to the Commons' feet presents 
A Kingdom for his first year's rents, 
And (what he may) forbears 
His fame, to make it theirs : 

And has his sword and spoils ungirt 
To lay them at the Public's skirt 
So when the falcon high 
Falls heavy from the sky, 

She, having kill'd, no more does search 
But on the next green bough to perch, 
Where, when he first does lure, 
The falconer has her sure. 

— What may not then our Isle presume 
While victory his crest does plume ? 
What may not others fear 
If thus he crowns each year ! 



As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul, 

To Italy an Hannibal, 

And to all states not free 
Shall climacteric be. 



■:.<r ' 






Book Second 

The Pict no shelter now shall find 
Within his parti-colour'd mind, 
But from this valour, sad 
Shrink underneath the plaid — 

Happy, if in the tufted brake 
The English hunter him mistake, 

Nor lay his hounds in near 

The Caledonian deer. 

But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son. 

March indefatigably on ; 
And for the last effect 
Still keep the sword erect : 

Besides the force it has to fright 

The spirits of the shady night. 
The same arts that did gain 
A power, must it maintain. 

A. Marvell 



LYCIDAS 
Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel 

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear 
Compels me to disturb your season due : 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : 
5 




66 



The Golden Treasury 



Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his wateiy bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring. 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string ; 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : 
So may some gentle Muse 
With lucky words favour my destined urn ; 
And as he passes, turn 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rilL 
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 
Under the opening eyelids of the mom. 
We drove a-lield, and both together heard 
What time the gray fly winds her sultiy horn, 
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night ; 
Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright. 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, [wheel. 
Temper'd to the oaten flute ; 

Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns mth cloven heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent long ; 
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 

But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 







Book Second O7 

And all their echoes, mourn : 

The willows and the hazel copses green 

Shall now no more be seen 

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays : — 

As killing as the canker to the rose, 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, 

Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear 

When first the white-thorn blows ; 

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. 

Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on tlie steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : 
Ay me ! I fondly dream — 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done ? 
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son. 
Whom universal nature did lament. 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar 
His goiy visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore t 

Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade 
And strictly, meditate the thankless Muse? 
Were it not better done, as others use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair ? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; 



Sf^ 




,p 



58 The Golden Treasury 

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears 
And slits the thin-spun life. ' But not the praise' 
Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears ; 
' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
Nor in the glistering foil 

Set off to the world, nor in broad nmiour lies : 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' 

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds ! 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 
But now my oat proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea 
That came in Neptune's plea ; 
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds. 
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? 
And question'd every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory : 
They knew not of his story ; 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark 
Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark. 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge 






Book Second 



69 




Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe : 

' Ah ! who hath reft ' quoth he ' my dearest pledge 1 ' 

Last came, and last did go 

The pilot of the Galilean lake ; 

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain 

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; 

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 

' How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, 

Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake 

Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! 

Of other care they little reckoning make 

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 

And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; 

Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold 

A sheep-hook, or have leam'd aught else the least 

That to the faithful herdman's art belongs ! 

What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped ; 

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw ; 

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 

But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 

Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 

— But that two-handed engine at the door 

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.' 




Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks 



70 



The Goldeii Treasury 





On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks 5 

Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes 

That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, 

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, 

The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, 

The glowing violet, 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, 

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. 

And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 

Bid amarantus all his beauty shed, 

And daffodillies fill their cups mth tears 

To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. 

For, so to interpose a little ease, 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise ; 

Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 

Wash far away, — where'er thy bones are hurl'd, 

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides 

Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, 

Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; 

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 

Where the great Vision of the guarded mount 

Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold, 

— Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth 

— And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more. 
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor j 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed. 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 



~ssB^msmtB!mt 





Booh S'.cond 

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 

So Lycidas sunk low, but momited high 

Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves ; 

Where, other groves and other streams along, 

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. 

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song 

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 

There entertain him all the saints above 

In solemn troops, and sweet societies, 

That sing, and singing, in their glory move, 

And mpe the tears for ever from his eyes. 

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore 

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 

To all that wander in that perilous flood. 

Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills. 
While the still morn went out with sandals gray ; 
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
And now tht sun had stretch'd out all the hills. 
And now was dropt into the western bay : 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. 
y. Milton 



W(^-^^- 




LXVII 

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER APBB Tt 

MORTALITY, behold and fear 
What a change of flesh is here I 
Think how many royal bones 
Sleep within these heaps of stones ; 



^^Hf 






72 The Golden '/'reasmy 

Here they lie, had realms and lands, 

Who now want strengtli to stir their hands, 

Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust 

They preach, ' In greatness is no trust. ' 

Here 's an acre sown indeed 

With the richest royallest seed 

That the earth did e'er suck in 

Since the first man died for sin : 

Here the bones of birth have cried 

' Though gods they were, as men they died 1 ' 

Here are sands, ignoble things, 

Dropt from the niin'd sides of kings : 

Here 's a world of pomp and state 

Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

K Beaumont 



V 



THE LAST CONQUEROR 

ICTORIOUS men of earth, no more 

Proclaim how wide your empires are ; 
Though you bind-in every shore 

And your triumphs reach as far 
As night or day. 

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, 

Each able to undo mankind, 
Death's servile emissaries are ; 

Nor to these alone confined, 
He hath at will 

More quaint and subtle ways to kill ; 






*■-*) 



Book Second 

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art, 
Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart 
J. Shirley 



■ DEATH THE LEVELLER 

THE glories of our blood and state 
Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armour against fate ; 

Death lays his icy hand on kings : 

Sceptre and Crown 

Must tumble down, 

And in the dust be equal made 

With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men \vith swords may reap the field, 

And plant fresh laurels where they kill : 

But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 

They tame but one another still : 

Early or late 

They stoop to fate, 

And must give up their murmuring breath 

When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands mther on your brow ; 

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor-victim bleeds : 
Your heads must come 
To the cold tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dusL 

J. Shirley 



73 





""^^ 






.74 



The Golden Treasury 





-SsO! 




WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED 
TO THE CITY 

CAPTAIN, or Colonel, or Knight in arms, 
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seizQ 
If deed of honour did thee ever please, 
Guard them, and him within protect from harms. 

He can requite thee ; for he knows the charms 
That call fame on such gentle acts as these. 
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas. 
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms. 

Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower 

Went to the ground : and the repeated air 

Of sad Electra's poet had the power 

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. 

J. Milton 



ON HIS BLINDNESS 

WHEN I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide; 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide, — 
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? 
I fondly ask : — But Patience, to prevent 






76 The Golden Treasury 

— This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
Ap<J having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir IT. Wottan 



THE NOBLE NATURE 

IT is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make Man better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night — 
It was the plant and flower of Light 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

B. JonsoH 

LXXIV 

THE GIFTS OF GOD 



WHEN God at first made Man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by ; 
Let us (said he) pour on him all we can : 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. 
Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 

Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 
Rest in the bottom lay. 



-Steiess 







Book Second 

For if I should (said he) 
Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 
He would adore my gifts instead of me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature 

So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness : 
Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to my breast. 

G. Herbert 



THE RETREAT 

HAPPY those early days, when I 
Shined in my Angel-infancy I 
Before I understood this place 
Appointed for my second race. 
Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
But a white, celestial thought ; 
When yet I had not walk'd above 
A mile or two from my first Love, 
And looking back, at that short space 
Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; 
When on some gilded cloud or flower 
My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 
And in those weaker glories spy 
Some shadows of eternity ; 
Before I taught my tongue to wound 
My conscience with a sinful sound. 
Or had the black art to dispense 



77 





Tke Golden Treasury 

A several sin to every sense, 

But felt through all this fleshly dress 

Bright shoots of everlastingness. 

O how I long to travel back, 
And tread again tliat ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that plait. 
Where first I left my glorious train ; 
From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees 
That shady City of Palm trees : 
But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way : — 
Some men a forward motion love, 
But I by backward steps would move ; 
And when this dust falls to the urn. 
In that state I came, return. 

H. Vmighan 

LXXVI 

TO MR. LAWRENCE 

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son. 
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire 
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire 
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won 

From the hard season gaining ? Time will run 
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire 
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire 
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. 

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice^ 
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice 




Book Second 

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air ? 

He who of those delights can judge, and spare 

To interpose tliem oft, is not unwise. 

y. Milton 

LXXVII 

TO CYRIACK SKINNER 

CYRIACK, whose grandsire, on the royal bench 
Of British Themis, with no mean applause 
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, 
Which others at their bar so often wrench ; 

To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 

In mirth, that after no repenting draws ; 

Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 

And what the Swede intends, and what the French, 

To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, 

And disapproves that care, though wise in show, 
That with superfluous burden loads the day, 
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 

y. Milton 

LXXVIII 

HYMN TO DIANA 



Q 



UEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair. 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair 

State in wonted manner keep : 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess excellently bright. 








8o The Golden Treamry 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close : 
Bless ns then with wished sight. 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart 

And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 
Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that mak'st a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

B. yonson 

LXXIX 

WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRES. 

WHOE'ER she be. 
That not impossible She 
T hat shall command my heart and me ; 




Where'er she lie, 

Lock'd up from mortal eye 

In shady leaves of destiny : 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied Fate stand forth. 

And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine 

— Meet you her, my Wishes, 

Besp«~ik her to my blisses, 

>-i-l E ye call'd, my absent kisses. 






Book Second 

I wish her beauty 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : 

Something more than 
Taffata or tissue can, 
Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 

A face that 's best 

By its o%vn beauty drest, 

And can alone command the rest : 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. 

Sydneian showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. 



Whate'er delight 

Can make day's forehead bright 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

Soft silken hours, 

Open suns, shady bowers ; 

'Bove all, nothing mthin that lowers. 

Days, that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a fore-spent night of sorrow : 

Days, that in spite 
Of darkness, by the light 
Of a clear mind are day all night 
6 




j^^Ste 





The Golden Treasury 

Life, that dares send 

A challenge to his end, 

And when it comes, say, ' Welcome, friend. ' 

I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish no more. 

— Now, if Time knows 

That Her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows; 

Her that dares be 

What these lines wish to see : 

I seek no further, it is She. 

'T is She, and here 

Lo ! I unclothe and clear 

My wishes' cloudy character. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory. 

My fancies, fly before ye ; 

Be ye my fictions : — but her story. 

R. Crasktm 

LXXX 

THE GREAT ADVENTURER 





OVER the mountains 
And over the waves, 
Under the fountains 
And under the graves ; 




Book Second 

Under floods that are deepest^ 
Which Neptune obey ; 
Over rocks that are steepest 
Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glow-worm to lie ; 

Where there is no space 

For receipt of a fly ; 

Where the midge dares not venture 

Lest herself fast she lay ; 

If love come, he will enter 

And soon find out his way. 

You may esteem him 

A child for his might ; 

Or you may deem him 

A coward from his flight ; 

But if she whom love doth honour 

Be conceal'd from the day, 

Set a thousand guards upon her, 

Lpve will find out the way. 

Some think to lose him 
By having him confined ; 
And some do suppose him, 
Poor thing, to be blind ; 
But if ne'er so close ye wall hini. 
Do the best that you may, 
Blind love, if so ye call him. 
Will find out his way. 

You may train the eagle 
To stoop to your fist ; ' 



83 



■.M 



^35S?5>5^ 




S4 The Golden Treasury 

Or you may inveigle 
The phoenix of the east ; 
The Honess, ye may move her 
To give o'er her prey ; 
But you '11 ne'er stop a lover ; 
He will find out his way. 

A)io>u 




'U 




LXXXI 
CHILD AND MAIDEN' 

AH, Chloris ! could I now but sit 
As unconcern'd as when 
Your infant beauty could beget 

No happiness or pain ! 
When I the dawn used to admire. 

And praised the coming day, 
I little thought the rising fire 
Would take my rest away. 

Your charms in harmless childhood lay 

Like metals in a mine ; 
Age from no face takes more away 

Than youth conceal'd in thine. 
But as your charms insensibly 

To their perfection prest, 
So love as unperceived did fly^ 

And center'd in my breast. 

My passion with your beauty grew. 

While Cupid at my heart 
Still as his mother favour'd you 

Threw a new flamintr dart : 







I rn 



Book Second 

Each gloried in their wanton part ; 

To make a lover, he 
Employ'd the utmost of his art — 

To make a beauty, she. 

Sir C. Sedley 



LXXXII 

COUNSEL TO GIRLS 

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may, 
Old Time is still a-flying : 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 
To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he 's a getting 
The sooner will his race be run. 

And nearer he 's to setting. 



8S 





That age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer ; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times, still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time ; 

And while ye may, go marry : 
For having lost but once your prime, 

Vou may for ever tarry. 

R. Herrick 





86 



The Golden Treasury 



LXXXIII 

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS 

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind 
That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
To war and anns I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase. 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore , 
I could not love thee. Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honour more. 

Colonel Lovelace 





LXXXIV 
ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA 

YOU meaner beauties of the night. 
Which poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light, 

You common people of the skies, 
What are you, when the Moon shall rise ? 

Ye violets that fii'st appear, 

By your pure purple mantles known 
Like the proud virgins of the year 

As if the spring were all your own, — 
What are you, when the Rose is blown 1 






Book Second 

Ye curious chanters of the wood 

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By youf weak accents ; what 's your praise 

When Philomel her voice doth raise ? 

So when my Mistress shall be seen 
In sweetness of her looks and mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, 
Tell me, if she were not design'd 

Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir H. Wotton 

LXXXV 

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY 

DAUGHTER to that good earl, once President 
Of England's council and her treasury. 
Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee. 
And left them both, more in himself content, 

Till the sad breaking of that parliament 

Broke him, as that dishonest victory 

At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty, 

Kill'd with report that old man eloquent ; — 

Though later bom than to have known the days 
Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, 
Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; 



So well your words his noble virtues praise. 
That all both judge you to relate them trae. 
And to possess them, honour'd Margaret. 

J. Milton 



'm 




ffr 





The Golden Treasury 

LXXXVI 

TITE LOVELINESS OF LOVE 

IT is not Beauty I demand, 
A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 
Nor tlie. snow's daughter, a white hand. 
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair : 

Tell me not of your starry eyes, 
Your lips that seem on roses fed, 
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies 
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed : — 




m 



A bloomy pair o^ vermeil cheeks 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, 
A breath that softer music speaks 
Than summer winds a-wooing flowersj 

These are but gauds : nay what are lips t 
Coral beneath the ocean-stream, 
Whose brink when your adventurer slipr 
Full oft he perisheth on them. 



And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood T 
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft^ 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 



Eyes can vrith baleful ardour bum ; 
Poison can breath, that erst perfumed ; 
There 's many a white hand holds an urn 
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 




■ .;-v!^»-» 



Book Second 

For ciystal brows there 's nought within ; 
They are but empty cells for pride ; 
He who the Syren's hair would win 
Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, 
A tender heart, a loyal mind 
Which with temptation I would trust, 
Yet never link'd with error find, — 

One in whose gentle bosom I 
Could pour my secret heart of woes, 
Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly 
That hides his murmurs in the rose, — 

My earthly Comforter ! whose love 
So indefeasible might be 
That, when my spirit wonn'd above, 
Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 

Anon, 



r 









LXXXVII 

THE TRUE BEAUTY 

HE that loves a rosy cheek 
Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay. 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 

Hearts with equal love combined. 
Kindle never-dying fires : — 




,^-a-% 




go The Golden Treasury 

Where these are not, I despise 
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 

T. Carew 



TO DIANEME 

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes 
Which starlike sparkle in their skies j 
Nor be you proud, that you can see 
All hearts your captives ; yours yet free : 
Be you not proud of that rich hair 
Which wantons with the lovesick air ; 
Whenas that ruby which you wear, 
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty 's gone. 

R. Herrick 




G 




O, lovely Rose ! 
Tell her, that wastes her time and me, 
That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that 's young 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired : 





" Go, lovely Rose." — Page go. 





Book Second 9I 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die ! that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee : 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! 

E. Waller 



TO CELIA 

DRINK to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge \vith mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
And I '11 not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither'd be ; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee ! 

B. jfonson 





92 



The Golden 'I'reasmy 




xci 
CHERR Y-RIPE 

THERE is a garden in her face 
Wliere roses and wliite lilies bloTf 
A heavenly paradise is that place, 

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ; 
There cherries grow that none may buy, 
Till Cherry- Ripe themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 

Of orient pearl a double row. 
Which when her lovely laughter shows. 

They look like rose-buds fiU'd with snow : 
Vet them no peer nor prince may buy, 
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; 

Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill 

All that approach with eye or hand 
These sacred cherries to come nigh, 
— Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry ! 

Anon. 

XCI I 
THE POETRY OF DRESS 



A SWEET disorder in the dress 
Kindles in clothes a wantonness 
A lawn about the shoulders throvim 
Into a fine distraction, — 






iis'^s 




Book Second 93 

An erring lace, which here and there 
Enthrals the crimson stomacher, — - 
A cuff neglectful, and thereby 
Ribbands to flow confusedly, — ■ 
A winning wave, deserving note, 
In the tempestuous petticoat, — 
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 
I see a wild civility, — 
Do more bewitch me, than when art 
Is too precise in every part. 

R. Herrick 



WHENAS in silks my Julia goes 
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows 
That liquefaction of her clothes. 

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see 
That brave vibration each way free ; 
O how that glittering taketh me ! 

R. Herrick 



MY Love in her attire doth shew her wit. 
It doth so well become her : 
For every season she hath dressings fit. 
For Winter, Spring, and Summer. 
No beauty she doth miss 
When all her robes are on : 
But Beauty's self she is 
When all her robes are gone. 

Ation. 




94 The Golden Treasury 

xcv 
ON A GIRDLE 

THAT which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer : 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love 
Did all mthin this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair ! 
Give me but what this ribband bound, 
Take all the rest the Sun goes round. 

E. Waller 





TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM 
ANYTHING 

BID me to live, and I will live 
Thy Protestant to be : 
Or bid me love, and I will give 
A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 

A heart as sound and free 
As in the whole world thou canst find. 

That heart I '11 give to thee. 




<s?f.v. 




Book Second 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay. 

To honour thy decree : 
Or bid it languish quite away, 

And 't shall do so for thee. 

Bid me to weep, and I will weep 

While I have eyes to see : 
And having none, yet I will keep 

A heart to weep for thee. 

Bid me despair, and I '11 despair, 

Under that cypress-tree : 
Or bid me die, and I will dare 

E'en Death, to die for thee. 

Thou art my lifo, my love, my heart, 

The very eyes of me. 
And hast command of every part. 

To live and die for thee. 

R. Heri-ick 



LOVE not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part, 
No, nor for my constant heart, — 
For those may fail, or turn to ill, 
So thou and I shall sever : 
Keep therefore a true woman's eye. 
And love me still, but know not why— . 
So hast thou the same reason still 
To doat upon me ever ! 

Anon, 





..«st?fe» ^"^^ ...^^ 




96 The Golden Treasury 



NOT, Celia, that I juster am 
Or better than the rest ; 
For I would change each hour, like them. 
Were not my heart at rest 

But I am tied to very thee 

By every thought I have ; 
Thy face I only care to see, 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 

In thy dear self I find — 
For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store. 

And still make love anew ? 
When change itself can give no more, 

'T is easy to be true. 

Sir C. Sedley 



TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON 

WHEN Love with unconfined vdngs 
Hovers mthin my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter'd to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 
Know no such liberty. 



4rw ^ 






Jn 



Book Second 97 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses crown'd, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free — 
Fishes that tipple in the deep 

Know no such liberty. 

When, linnet-like confined, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be. 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make. 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage : 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 

Colonel Lovelace 



TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE 
SEAS 

IF to be absent were to be 
Avi3.y from thee ; 
7 






'fT^^i^^ 




The Golden Treasury 

Or that when I am gone 
You or I were alone ; 
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. 

Though seas and land betwixt us both. 
Our faith and troth. 
Like separated souls. 
All time and space controls : 
Above the highest sphere we meet 
Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet 

So then we do anticipate 
Our after-fate. 
And are alive i' the skies. 
If thus our lips and eyes 
Can speak like spirits unconfined 
In heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. 
Colonel Lovelace 



ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER 

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover ? 
Prythee, why so pale ? 
Will, if looking well can't move her, 
Looking ill prevail ? 
Prythee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Prythee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do 't ? 

Prythee, why so mute ? 






-I ifl^^" " 



Book Second 

Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : 

The D— 1 take her ! 

Sir y. Suckling 



CII 
A SUPPLICATION 

AWAKE, awake, my Lyre ! 
And tell thy silent master's humble tale 
In sounds that may prevail ; 
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
Though so exalted she 
And I so lowly be 
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. 



Hark ! how the strings awake : 
And, though the moving hand approach not near, 

Themselves with awful fear 
A kind of numerous trembling make. 

Now all thy forces try ; 

Now all thy charms apply ; 
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 

Weak Lyre ! thy \'irtue sure 
Is useless here, since thou art only found 

To cure, but not to wound. 
And she to wound, but not to cure. 

Too weak too wilt thou prove 

My passion to remove ; 
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. 




tr- y^- 




oo The Golden Treasury 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
For thou canst never tell my humble tale 
In sounds that will prevail. 
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
All thy vain mirth lay by. 
Bid thy strings silent lie. 
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die; 

A. Cowley 




THE MANLY HEART 

SHALL I, wasting in despair. 
Die because a woman 's fair ? 
Or my cheeks make pale with care 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day 
Or the flowery meads in May — 
If she be not so to me 
What care I how fair she be ? 






Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ; 
Or a well disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me 

What care I how kind she be ? 



Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her merit's value known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 



:^ 



Book Secona '. 

Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her name of Best ; 
If she seem not such to me, 
What care I how good she be ? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die ? 
Those that bear a noble mind 
Where they want of riches find. 
Think what with them they would do 
Who without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I though great she be ? 

Great or good, or kind or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair ; 

If she love me, this believe, 

I mil die ere she shall grieve ; 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 

G. Wither 

CIV 

MELANCHOLY 

HENCE, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 
Wherein you spend your folly : 
There 's nought in this life sweet 
If man were wise to see 't. 
But only melancholy, 
O sweetest Melancholy I 







The Golden Treasury 

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 

A sigh that piercing mortifies, 

A look that 's fasten'd to the ground, 

A tongue chain'd up without a sound ! 

Fountain heads and pathless groves, 

Places which pale passion loves ! 

Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 

Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 

A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 

These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; 
Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 
J. Fletcher 



TO A LOCK OF HAIR 

THY hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright 
As in that well-remember'd night 
When first thy mystic braid was wove. 
And first my Agnes whisper'd love. 

Since then how often hast thou prest 
The torrid zone of this wild breast, 
Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell 
With the first sin that peopled hell ; 
A breast whose blood 's a troubled ocean. 
Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion ! 

if such clime thou canst endure 
Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, 
What conquest o'er each erring thought 
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought ! 

1 had not wander'd far and wide 
With such an angel for my guide ; 







5^ 



Book Second 103 

Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me 
If she had lived, and lived to love me. 

Not then this world's vrild joys had been 
To me one savage hunting scene, 
My sole delight the headlong race 
And frantic hurry of the chase ; 
To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 
Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey. 
Then — from the carcass turn away ! 
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed. 
And soothed each wound which pride inflamed : — 
Yes, God and man might now approve me 
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me ! 

Sir IV. Scott 



THE FORSAKEN BRIDE 

OWALY waly up the bank. 
And waly waly down the brae, 
And waly waly yon bum-side 

Where I and my Love wont to gae I 
I leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, 
Sae my true Love did lichtly me. 

O waly waly, but love be bonny 
A little time while it is new ; 

But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld 
And fades awa' like morning dew. 

O wherefore should I busk my head ? 
Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? 






104 77;t' Golden Treantry 

For my true Love has me forsook, 
And says he '11 never loe me mair. 

Now Arthur-seat sail be my bed ; 

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me : 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true Love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw 

And shake the green leaves aff the tree ? 

gentle Death, when wilt thou come ? 
For of my life I am wearie. 

'T is not the frost that freezes fell, 

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry, 

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. 
When we came in by Glasgow town 

We were a comely sight to see ; 
My Love was clad in the black velvet. 

And I mysell in cramasie. 

But had I wist, before I kist, 

That love had been sae ill to win ; 

1 had lockt my heart in a case of gowd 

And pinn'd it with a siller pin. 
And, O ! if my young babe were bom. 

And set upon the nurse's knee. 
And I mysell were dead and gane. 

And the green grass growing over me ! 
Anon, 



r^5l?5?**' 



Book Second 



i°S 




cvn 
FAIR HELElSr 

I WISH I were where Helen lies : 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
O that I were where Helen lies 
On fair Kirconnell lea ! 

Curst be the heart that thought the thought. 
And curst the hand that fired tlie shot, 
When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
And died to succour me ! 

think na but my heart was sair 

When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair ! 

1 laid her down wi' meikle care 

On fair Kirconnell lea. 

As I went down the water-side, 

None but my foe to be my guide, 

None but my foe to be my guide. 

On fair Kirconnell lea ; 

I lighted down my sword to draw, 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 
I hacked him in pieces sma', 

For her sake that died for me. 

Helen fair, beyond compare ! 

1 '11 make a garland of thy hair 
Shall bind my heart for evermair 

Until the day I die. 








lo6 The Golden Treasury 

O that I were where Helen lies ! 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
Out of my bed she bids me rise, 

Says, ' Haste and come to me !' 

O Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! 
If I were with thee, I were blest. 
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest 
On fair Kirconnell lea. 



SV^ 



I %vish my grave were growing green, 
A winding sheet drawn ower my een. 
And I in Helen's arms lying. 
On fair Kirconnell lea. 



^/$ 



I wish I were where Helen lies : 
Night and day on me she cries ; 
And I am weary of the skies, 
Since my love died for me. 



Anon, 



CVIII 

THE TWA CORBIES 

AS I was walking all alane 
I heard twa corbies making a roane ; 
The tane unto the t' other say, 
'Where sail we gang and dine to-day f* 



' — In behint yon auld fail dyke, 
I wot there lies a new-slain Knight ; 
And naebody kens that he lies there, 
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fai? 



>t^h 




Book Second 

' His hound is to the hunting gane, 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame. 
His lady 's ta'en anotlier mate, 
So we may mak our dinner sweet 

' Ye '11 sit on his white hause-bane. 
And I '11 pick out his bonny blue een : 
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair 
We '11 theek our nest when it grows bare. 

' Mony a one for him makes mane, 
But nane sail ken where he is gane ; 
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair. ' 

Anon. 



CIX 
TO BLOSSOMS 

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree. 
Why do ye fall so fast ? 
Your date is not so past. 
But you may stay yet here awhile 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What, were ye bom to be 

An hour or half's delight. 
And so to bid good-night ? 

'T was pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 







Io8 The Golden Treasury 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 
And after they have shown their pride 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

H. Herrick 



CX 

TO DAFFODILS 

FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon : 
As yet the early-rising Sun 

Has not attain'd his noon. 

Stay, stay. 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having pray'd together, we 
Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you. 

We have as short a Spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

We die. 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away 
Like to the Summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
Ne'er to be found again. 

R. Herrick 



^^^^;/^:^ 






Book Second 



THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN 

HOW vainly men themselves amaze 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 
And their incessant labours see 
Crown'd from some single herb or tree, 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do close 
To weave the garlands of Repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence thy sister dear ? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men : 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among the plants will grow : 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 

So amorous as this lovely green. 

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 

Cut in these trees their mistress' name ; 

Little, alas, they know or heed 

How far these beauties her exceed ! 

Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. 

No name shall but your own be found. 

When we have nm our passion's heat 
Love hither makes his best retreat : 
The gods, who mortal beauty chase. 
Still in a tree did end their race : 





The Goldeti Treasury 

Apollo hunted Daphne so 
Only that she might laurel grow : 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 

What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 
The nectarine and curious peach 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass. 
Ensnared with flowers, 1 fall on grass. 



'^->.'^:J 



Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

Withdraws into its happiness ; 

The mind, that ocean where each kind 

Does straight its own resemblance find ; 

Yet it creates, transcending these, 

Far other worlds, and other seas ; 

Annihilating all that 's made 

To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and claps its silver wings, 
And, till prepared for longer flight. 
Waves in its plumes the various light 

Such was that happy Garden-state 
While man there walk'd without a mate : 




How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, th' industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers ! 
A. Marvell 

CXII 

VALLEGRO 

HENCE, loathed Melancholy, 
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bom 
In Stygian cave forlorn 

'Mongst horrid shapes, andshrieks, and sights unholy! 
Find out some uncouth cell 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous %vings 
And the night-raven sings ; 

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 





But come, thou Goddess fair and free. 
In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 







The Golden Treasury 

With two sister Graces more 

To i\'y-crowned Bacchus bore ; 

Or whether (as some sager sing) 

The frolic wind that breathes the spring 

Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 

As he met her once a-Maying — 

There on beds of violets blue 

And fresh-blo%vn roses wash'd in dew 

Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, 

So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides ; — 
Come, and trip it as you go 
On the light fantastic toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And if I give thee honour due 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 
To live with her, and live with thee 
In unreproved pleasures free ; 
To hear the lark begin his flight 
And singing startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower in the skies, . 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow 
Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 







^^ Ca/;it; and i?-ij> it as you ^c." — Page iia. 





Book Second 



113 



"iSLi 



While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door. 
Stoutly struts his dames before : 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering mom, 
From the side of some hoar hill. 
Through the high wood echoing shrill. 
Sometime walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great Sun begins his state 
Robed in flames and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
While the ploughman, near at hand. 
Whistles o'er the, furrow'd land. 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe. 
And the mower whets his scythe. 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught n"^ nleasurcs 
Whilst the landscape round it measures ; 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The labouring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some Beauty lies, 
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 





w 







114 The Golde}i Treasitry 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 

Are at their savoury dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead. 

To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth and many a maid, 
Dancing in the chequer'd shade ; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sun-shine holy-day, 
Till the live-long day-light fail : 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
With stories told of many a feat, 
How laery Mab the junkets eat ; 
She was pinch'd, and puU'd, she said ; 
And he, by friar's lantern led ; 
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
When in one night, ere glimpse of mom. 
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn 
That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 
And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; 
And crop-full out of doors he flings. 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
, By whispering winds soon luU'd asleep, 



w^ 





Book Second 

Tower'd cities please us then 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask, and antique pageantry ; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Sliakspeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long dravim out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony ; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber, on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear ' 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain'd Eurydice. 




Il6 The Golden Treasury 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

J. Milton 




IL PENSEROSO 

HENCE, vain deluding Joys, 
The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
How little you bestead 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys J 
Dwell in some idle brain. 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
Or likest hovering dreams 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 

But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove ■ 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea nymphs, and their powers offended. 
Yet thou art higher far descended : 
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore; 
His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain : 






'^ Come ^ pensive nun^ devout and pia-e?'' — Page T17. 






s^ m 




Book Second 

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure. 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of cypres la%vn 
Over thy decent shoulders dravra : 
Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 
And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing : 
And add to tliese retired Leisure 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : — 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. 
The cherub Contemplation ; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song 
In her sweetest saddest plight, 
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoka 
Gently o'er the accustom'd oak. 



"7 







H8 The Golden Treasury 

— Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. 
Most musical, most melancholy ! 
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
And missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering Moon 
Riding near her highest noon. 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven's wide pathless way. 
And oft, as if her he A she bow'd, 
Stooping through t» fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground 
I hear the far-off curfeu sound 
Over some wide-water'd shore. 
Swinging slow with sullen roar : 
Or, if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit. 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 
Far from all resort of mirth. 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the belman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower. 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 
The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook : 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 






Book Second 

Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. 
Or the tale of Troy divine ; 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek 
And made Hell grant what Love did seek ! 
Or call up him that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife 
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 
And of the wondrous horse of brass 
On which the Tartar king did ride : 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung 
Of tumeys, and of trophies hung, 
Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic Boy to hunt, 
But kercheft in a comely cloud 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher'd with a shower still, 
When the gust hath blown his fill. 



119 







n 




> TAe Golden Treaszuy 

Ending on the rustling leaves 

With minute drops from off the eaves. 

And when the sun begins to fling 

His flaring beams,, me, goddess, bring 

To arclied wallcs of twihght groves, 

And sliadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 

Of pine, or monumental oak, 

Wliere the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt 

Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt 

There in close covert by some brook 

Where no profaner eye may look, 

Hide me from day's garish eye, 

While the bee with honey'd thigh 

That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring, 

With such concert as they keep 

Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep ; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings in aery stream 

Of lively portraiture display'd. 

Softly on my eyelids laid : 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
lo walk the studious cloister's pale, 
And love the high-embowed roof. 
With antique pillars massy proof, 
And storied windows richly dight 
Casting a dim religious light : 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below 



Book Second 




In service High and anthems clear, 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear. 

Dissolve me into ecstasies, 

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show. 
And every herb that sips the dew ; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

J. Milton • 

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA 

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat that row'd along 
The listening winds received this song. 
' What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the wateiy maze 
Where He the huge sea monsters wracks. 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown. 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
He lands us on a grassy stage. 
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage ; 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everything, 





■M . 




122 The Golden Treasury 

And sends the fowls to us in care 

On daily visits through the air. 

He hangs in shades the orange bright 

Like golden lamps in a green night, 

And does in the pomegranates close / 

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows ; 

He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 

And throws the melons at our feet ; 

But apples, plants of such a price. 

No tree could ever bear them twice. 

With cedars chosen by his hand 

From Lebanon he stores the land ; 

And makes the hollow seas that roar 

Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 

He cast (of which we rather boast) 

The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 

And in these rocks for us did frame 

A temple where to sound His name. 

let our voice His praise exalt 

Till it arrive at Heaven's vaiilt, 

Which then perhaps rebounding may 

Echo beyond the Mexique bay ! ' 

■ — Thus sung they in the English boat 

A holy and a cheerful note : 

And all the way, to guide their chime, 

With falling cays they kept the time. 

A. Marvdl 

cxv 

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC 

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy. 
Sphere-bom harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse 1 
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ 
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ; 







Book Second 



123 



And to our high-raised phantasy present 
That undisturbed Song of pure concent 
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne 

To Him that sits thereon, 
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 
Their loud uplifted angel -trumpets blow ; 
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires 
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, 
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms 

Hymns devout and holy psalms 

Singing everlastingly : 
Tliat we on earth, with undiscording voice 
May rightly answer that melodious noise ; 
As'once we did, till disproportion'd sin 
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din 
Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd 
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
In first obedience, and their state of good. 
O may we soon again renew that Song, 
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God erelong 
To his celestial concert us unite, 
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light ! 

J. Milton 




ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, 
OF MUSIC 



THE POWER 



'HP WAS at the royal feast for Persia won 




By Philip's warlike son — 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 
On his imperial throne ; 





:i24 



The Golden Treasury 






His valiant peers were placed around, 

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound 

(So should desert in arms be crown'd) ; 

The lovely Thais by his side 

Sate lilce a blooming Eastern bride 

In flower of youth and beauty's pride : — 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave 

None but the brave 

None but the brave deserves the fair I 

Timotheus placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire 
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky " _ 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove 
Who left his blissful seats above — 
Such is the power of mighty love ! 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode 
When he to fair Olympia prest. 
And while he sought her snowy breast ; 
Then round her slender waist he curl'd, 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the 

world. 
— The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ! 
A present deity ! they shout around : 
A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ! 
With ravish'd ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god ; 
Affects to nod 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



\% 





Book Second 



I2S 




-i»^ 





The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung : 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : 
The jolly god in triumph comes ! 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! 
Flush'd with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face : 

Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again. 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew 

the slain ! 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he Heaven and Earth defied 
Changed his hand and check'd his pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius great and good, 
By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
Fallen from his high estate. 
And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need, 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 




126 



The Golden Treasury 



m 



— With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his alter'd soul 

The various turns of Chance below ; 
And now and then a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'T was but a kindred sound to move. 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
Honour but an empty bubble. 
Never ending, still beginning ; 
Fighting still, and still destroying ; 
If the world be v/orth thy winning. 
Think, O think, it worth enjoying : 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
Take the good the gods provide thee ! 

— The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : 
At length %vith love and wine at once opprest 
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast- 




Now strike the golden lyre again : 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain I 
Break his bands of sleep asunder 
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 





<«w:?fe 




^It^; 



"®<S» 



.1i*=" 



Book Second 



121 



Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 

Has raised up his head : 

As awaked from the dead 

And amazed he stares around. 

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries. 

See the Furies arise ! 

See the snakes that they rear 

How they hiss in their hair, 

And the sparldes that flash from their eyes ! 

Behold a ghastly band 

Each a torch in his hand ! 

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain 

And unburied remain 

Inglorious on the plain : 

Give the vengeance due 

To the valiant crew ! 

Behold how they toss their torches on high. 

How they point to the Persian abodes 

And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 

— The princes applaud with a furious joy : 
And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey. 
And like another Helen, fired another Troy I 

— Thus, long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows leam'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre 

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store 






.128 



The Golden Treasury 



Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 

And added length to solemn sounds, 

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before^ 

— Let old Timotheus yield the prize 

Or both divide the crown ; 

He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel do\vn ! 

y. Dryden 




i^tSBsf^^ 



^^"^'7^^...^^^' 






BOOK THIRD 



OBS ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM 
VICISSITUDE 

NOW the golden Mom aloft 
Waves her dew-bespangled wing, 
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft 

She -woos the tardy Spring : 
Till April starts, and calls around 
The sleeping fragrance from the ground. 
And lightly o'er the living scene 
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. 



New-bom flocks, in rustic dance. 

Frisking ply their feeble feet ; 
Forgetful of their wintry trance 
The birds his presence greet : 
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high 
His trembling thrilling ecstasy ; 
And lessening from the dazzled sight, 
Melts into air and liquid light 
9 





ip* 



<l;^" 



130 The Golden Treamry 

Yesterday the sullen year 

Saw the sno\vy whirlwind fly ; 
Mute was the music of the air, 
The herd stood drooping by : 
Their raptures now that wildly flow 
No yesterday nor morrow know ; 
'T is Man alone that joy descries 
With forward and reverted eyes. 

Smiles on past Misfortune's brow 
Soft Reflection's hand can trace, 
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw 

A melancholy grace ; 
While Hope prolongs our happier h'MW, 
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour 
And blacken round our weaiy way, 
Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads. 

See a kindred Grief pursue ; 
Behind the steps that Misery treads 

Approaching Comfort view : 
The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
Chastised by sabler tints of woe. 
And blended form, with artful strife^ 
The strength and harmony of life. 

See the wretch that long has tost 

On the thorny bed of pain. 
At length repair his vigour lost 
And breathe and walk again : 
The meanest floweret of the vale, 
The simplest note that swells the gale, 
The common sun, the air, the skies. 
To him are opening Paradise. 

T. Gray 



t^^ 









Book Third 131 

CXVIII 

THE QUIET LIFE 

HAPPY the man, whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 
Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in summer yield him shade, 
In winter, fire. 

Blest, who can unconcem'dly find 
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away 
In health of body, peace of mind. 
Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night ; study and ease 
Together mix'd ; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does please 
With meditation. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ; 
Thus unlamented let me die ; 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. 

A. Pope 

cxix 

THE BLIND BOY 



o 




SAY what is that thing call'd Light, 
Which I must ne'er enjoy ; 



-^*« 




The Golden Treasury 

What are the blessings of the sight, 
O tell your poor blind boy ! 

You talk of wondrous things you see. 
You say the sun shines bright ; 

I feel hirn warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night ? 

My day or night myself I make 
Whene'er I sleep or play ; 

And could I ever keep awake 
With me 't were always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe ; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 




Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy : 
Whilst thus, I sing, I am a king, 

Although a poor blind boy. 

C. Gibber 



ON A FAVOURITE GAT, DROWNEO IN A 
TUB OF GOLD FISHES 

'' I ' WAS on a lofty vase's side 

X M'here China's gayest art had dyed 
The azure flowers that blow. 
Demurest of the tabby kind 
The pensive Selima, reclined, 
Gazed on the lake below. 






Book Third 

Her conscious tail her joy declared : 
The fair round face, the snowy beard. 
The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat that with the tortoise vies, 
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes — ■ 
She saw, and purr'd applause. 

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 
The Genii of the stream : 
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple, to the view 
Betray'd a golden gleam. 

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw : 

A whisker first, and then a claw 

With many an ardent wish 

She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize— 

What female heart can gold despise ? 

What Cat 's averse to Fish ? 



-'33 




Presumptuous maid ! with looks intent 
Again she stretch'd, again she bent. 
Nor knew the gulf between — 
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled — 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled ; 
She tumbled headlong in ! 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mew'd to every watery God 
Some speedy aid to send : — 
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, 
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard — 
A favourite has no friend ! 








134 T/ie Goldeti Treasury 

From hence, ye Beauties ! undeceived 
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, 
And be with caution bold : 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, 
Nor all that glisters, gold ! 

T. Gray 



TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY 

TIMELY blossom. Infant fair, 
Fondling of a happy pair, 
Eveiy morn and every night 
Their solicitous delight, 
Sleeping, waking, still at ease. 
Pleasing, without skill to please ; 
Little gossip, blithe and hale, 
Tattling many a broken tale. 
Singing many a tuneless song. 
Lavish of a heedless tongue ; 
Simple maiden, void of art, 
Babbling out the veiy heart. 
Yet abandon'd to thy will. 
Yet imagining no ill. 
Yet too innocent to blush ; 
Like the linnet in the bush 
To the mother-linnet's note 
Moduling her slender throat ; 
Chirping forth thy petty joys. 
Wanton in the change of toys. 
Like the linnet green, in May 
Flitting to each bloomy spray ; 
Wearied then and glad of rest, 







',<!^^^&' 




136 



T/ii: Golden Treasury 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
All thine shall be the subject main. 

And every shore it circles thine I 

The Muses, still with Freedom found. 

Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair : — 
Rule Britannia ! Britannia rule the waves ! 
Britons never shall be slaves ! 

y. Thomson 



THE BARD 

Pindaric Ode 

' T~) UIN seize thee, ruthless King ! 

X\. Confusion on thy banners wait ! 
Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing 

They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail. 
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 
To save thy secret soul from niglitly fears. 
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! ' 
— Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 

He wound with toilsome march his long array : — 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; 
' To arms ! ' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering 
lance. 



\M 



Book Third 



137 



On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe 
With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; 
(Loose his beard and hoary hair 
Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) 
And with a master's hand and prophet's fire 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre : 
' Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave 

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they wave, 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

' Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, 

That hush'd the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie 
Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale : 
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; 

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep ; They do not sleep ; 

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, 
I see them sit ; They linger yet. 

Avengers of their native land : 
With me in dreadful harmony they join, 
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 







The Golden Treasury 

' Weave the warp and weave the woof 

The winding-sheet of Edward's race : 
Give ample room and verge enough 

The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year and mark the night 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 

Slie-wolf of France, wath unrelenting fangs 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate. 

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of Heaven ! What terrors round him wait 
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined. 
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

* Mighty victor, mighty lord. 

Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 
No pitying heart, no eye, afford 

A tear to grace his obsequies. 
Is the sable warrior fled ? 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born ? 
— Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the Mom, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes : 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : 
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 
That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey. 

' Fill high the sparkling bowl, 
The rich repast prepare ; 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
Close by the regal chair 



.u.ii .f". ' ■^i.Ut i i i tjj. gffiwn 






Book Third 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 

Long years of havock urge their destined course, 
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed. 

Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head ! 
Above, below, the rose of snow. 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom. 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 



' Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 

(Weave we the woof ; The thread is spun ;) 
Half of thy heart we consecrate. 

(The web is wove ; The work is done ; 
Stay, O stay ! nor thus forlorn 
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track that fires the western skies 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But O ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight. 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : — 
All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail I 

' Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 




140 



The Golden Treasury 




And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line* 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face 
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the k.r. 

What strains of vocal transport round her play ? 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings. 
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings, 

' The verse adom again 

Fierce War and faithful Love 
And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. 

In buskin'd measures move 
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, 
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast 
A voice as of the cherub-choir 

Gales from blooming Eden bear. 

And distant warblings lessen on my ear 
That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud 

Raised by thy breatlr has quench 'd the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 
Enough for me : with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign : 
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care ; 

To triumph and to die are mine. ' 
— He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 

T Gray 





Book Third 



141 



CXXIV 

ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI 

HOW sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their Country's wishes blest t 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung. 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung : 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay. 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

W. Collins 



LAMENT FOR CULLODEN 

THE lovely lass o' Inverness, 
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas ! 
And aye the saut tear blin's her ee : 
Drumossie moor — Drumossie day — 
A waefu' day it was to me ! 
For there I lost my father dear. 
My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay. 
Their graves are growing green to see : 



f -L . ' i ff f f^ j. fjl lm 





_i2u.a^E:::S£3 



142 The Golden Treasury 

And by them lies the dearest lad 
That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 
A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair 
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 

R. Biiriis 



cxxvi 
LAMENT FOR FLODDEN 

I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, 
Lasses a' lilting before dawn 0' day ; 
But now they are moaning on illca green loaning — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning; 

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; 
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, 

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, 
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ; 

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleecliing — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 




At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; 

But illv ane sits drearie, lamenting lier dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. 

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! 

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, 
• 'he prime of our land, are caukl in the clay. 




%y^ 



Book Third 

We '11 hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking ; 

Women and bainis are heartless and wae ; 
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
y. Elliott 

CXXVII 

THE BRAES OF YARROW 

THY braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, 
When first on them I met my lover ; 
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, 
When now thy waves his body cover ! 
For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! 
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy banks shall I 
Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow. 

He promised me a milk-white steed 

To bear me to his father's bowers ; 

He i:iromised me a little page 

To squire me to his father's towers ; 

He promised me a wedding-ring, — 

The wedding-day was fixd to-morrow ; — 

Now he is wedded to his grave 

Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow : 

Sweet were his words when last we met ; 
My passion I as freely told him ; 
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
That I should never more behold him I 
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
It vanish 'd with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 
And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. 



^43 





144 



The Golden Treasury 




m 





His mother from the window look'd 
With all the longing of a mother ; 
His little sister weeping walk'd 
The green-wood path to meet her brother ; 
They sought him east, they sought him west. 
They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
They only saw the cloud of night, 
They only heard tlie roar of Yarrow. 

No longer from thy window look — 
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; 
Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! 
No longer seek him east or west 
And search no more the forest thorough j 
For, wandering in the night so dark. 
He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 

The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
No other youth shall be my marrow — 
I 'II seek thy body in the stream. 
And then with thee I '11 sleep in Yarrow. 
- — The tear did never leave her cheek, 
No other youth became her marrow ; 
She found his body in the stream. 
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 
y. Logan 

CXXVIII 

WILLY DROWlsTED IN YARROW 

DOWN in yon garden sweet and gay 
Where bonnie grows the lily, 
I heard a fair maid sighing say • 

' My wish be wi' sweet Willie ! 







Book Third 

' Willie 's rare, and Willie 's fair, 
And Willie 's wondrous bonny ; 

And Willie hecht to marry me 
Gin e'er he married ony. 

' O gentle wind, that bloweth south. 
From where my Love repaireth, 

Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth 
And tell me how he fareth ! 

' O tell sweet Willie to come doun 

And hear the mavis singing, 
A.nd see the birds on ilka bush 

And leaves around them hinging. 

• The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast 

And gentle throat sae narrow ; 

There 's sport eneuch for gentlemen 

On Leader haughs and Yarrow. 

* O Leader haughs are wide and braid 

And Yarrow haughs are bonny ; 
There Willie hecht to marry me 
If e'er he married ony. 

'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on^ 
And does not hear me weeping ; 

Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e 
When other maids are sleeping. 

' Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, 
The night I '11 mak' it narrow. 

For a' the live-lang winter night 
I lie twined o' my marrow. 



HS 





1^6 Tlie Golden Treasury 

' O came ye by yon water-side ? 

Pou'd you the rose or lily ? 
Or came you by yon meadow green, 

Or saw you my sweet Willie 2 ' 

She sought him up, she sought him down, 
She sought him braid and narrow ; 

Syne, in the cleaving of a craig, 

She found him drown'd in Yarrow ! 

A710H. 



3^\ 



CXXIX 

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE 

TOLL for the Brave ! 
The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave 
Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave 
Whose courage well was tried. 
Had made the vessel heel 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
And she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, 
With all her crew complete. 



Toll for the brave ! 
Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought. 
His work of glory done. 







m, 



Book Third 

It was not in the battle ; 
No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak 
She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath, 
His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 
With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 
Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again 

Full charged with England's thunder. 

And plough the distant main : 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 
His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the wave no more. 

W. Cowper 

CXX.K 

BLACK-EYED SUSAN 

ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd. 
The streamers waving in the wind, 
When black-eyed Susan came aboard ; 

' O ! where shall I my true-love find ? 
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true 
If my sweet William sails among the crew.' 



147 






The Golden Treasury 

William, who high upon the yard 

Rock'd with the billow to and fro, 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard 

He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below : 
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands 
And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
Shuts close his pinions to his breast 

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, 
And drops at once into her nest : — ■ 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. 

' O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 
Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 
Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

' Believe not what the landmen say 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 

They '11 tell thee, sailors, when away, 
In eveiy port a mistress find : 

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 

For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go, 

' If to fair India's coast we sail. 

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, 

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, 
Thy skin is i^'oiy so white. 

Thus every beauteous object that I view 

Wakes in my soul some charni of lovely Sue. 






^^■sj 




Book Third 

' Though battle call me from thy arms 

Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms 

William shall to his Dear return. 
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.' 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 

No longer must she stay aboard ; 

They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. 

Her iessenmg boat unwilling rows to land ; 

'Adieu ! ' she cries ; and waved her lily hand. 
J. Gay 



SALLY IN OUR ALLEY 




OF all the girls that are so smart 
There 's none like pretty Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally ; 

She is the darling of ray heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets 

And through the streets does cry 'em J 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em : 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally ! 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 




150 The Golden Treasury 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely ; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely — • 
But let him bang his bellyful, 

I '11 bear it all for Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that 's in the week 

I dearly love but one day — 
And that 's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday ; 
For then I 'm drest all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heait, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master carries me to church, 

And often am I blamed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named ; 
I leave the church in sermon-time 

And slink away to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When Christmas comes about again. 

then I shall have money ; 
I '11 hoard it up, and box it all, 

1 '11 give it to my honey : 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

I 'd give it all to Sally ; 
She is the darling of my heart, 
And she lives in our alley. 



W^ 'W'^^^ 





Book Third 

My master and the neighbours all 

Make game of me and Sally, 
And, but for her, I 'd better be 

A slave and row a galley ; 
But when my seven long years are out 

O then I '11 marry Sally, — 
O then we '11 wed, and then we '11 bed, 

But not in our alley ! 

H. Carey 



A FAREWELL 

GO fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier of Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry, 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
A.nd I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it 's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar — 

It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

R. Burns 



ISI 





^ 




152 The Golden Treasury 



IF doughty deeds my lady please 
Right soon I '11 mount my steed j 
And strong his arm, and fast his seat 

That bears frae me the meed. 
I '11 wear thy colours in my cap, 

Thy picture at my heart ; 
And he that bends not to thine eye 
Shall rue it to his smart ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; 

O tell me how to woo thee ! 
For thy dear sake, nae care I '11 take 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

If gay attire delight thine eye 

I '11 dight me in array ; 
I '11 tend thy chamber door all night, 

And squire thee all the day. 
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear. 

These sounds I '11 strive to catch j 
Thy voice I '11 steal to woo thysell. 

That voice that nane can match. 

But if fond love thy heart can gain, 

I never broke a vow ; 
Nae maiden lays her skaith to mc, 

I never loved but you. 
For you alone I ride the ring, 

For you I wear the blue ; 
For you alone I strive to sing, 

O tell me how to woo ! 

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love j 
O tell me how to woo thee ! 






t 



'Su'cni and chaste, she steals aleng.^^ — Vase: 153 




Book Third 153 

For thy dear sake, nae care I '11 take, 
Tho' ne'er another trow me. 

Crahatn of Gartmofe 



TO A YOUNG LADY 

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, 
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 
Silent and chaste she steals along, 
Far from the world's gay busy throng : 
With gentle yet prevailing force. 
Intent upon her destined course ; 
Graceful and useful all she does. 
Blessing and blest where'er she goes ; 
Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, 
And Heaven reflected in her face. 

W. Cowper 

cxxxv 
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile— 
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes. 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile 
And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! 

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; 
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know ! 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
Her fair hands folded on her breas . : 









154 '^^'■^ Golden Treasury 

— And now, how like a saint she sleeps! 
A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure ! Above controul 
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee : 
And may the secret of thy soul 
Remain within its sanctuary ! 

S. Rogers 



FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove 
An unrelenting foe to Love, 
And when we meet a mutual heart 
Come in between, and bid us part ? 

Bid us sigh on from day to day, 
And wish and wish the soul away ; 
Till youth and genial years are flown. 
And all the life of life is gone ? 

But busy, busy still art thou. 
To bind the loveless joyless vow. 
The heart from pleasure to delude, 
To join the gentle to the rude. 

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, 
And I absolve thy future care ; 
All other blessings I resign. 
Make but the dear Amanda mine. 

y, Thomson 






.^' 



"'^.ivi^ 





Booi Third 



THE merchant, to secure his treasure. 
Conveys it in a borrow'd name ; 
EupheUa serves to grace my measure, 
But Cloe is my real flame. 

My softest verse, my darling lyre 
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay — • 
When Cloe noted her desire 
That I should sing, that I should play. 

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, 
But with my numbers mix my sighs ; 
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, 
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. 

Fair Cloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd : 
I sung, and gazed ; I play'd, and trembled 
And Venus to the Loves around 
Remark'd how ill we all dissembled. 

M. Prior 

CXXXVIII 

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly 
And finds too late that men betray, 
What charm can soothe her melancholy. 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover. 
To hide her shame from eveiy eye. 
To give repentance to her lover 
And wring his bosom, is — to die 

O. Goldsmith 








156 The Golden Treasury 

cxxxix 

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 
How can ye bloom sae fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
That sings upon the bough ; 

Thou minds me o' the happy days 
When my fause Luve was true. 

Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
That sings beside thy mate ; 

For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 
To see the woodbine twine, 

And ilka bird sang o' its love ; 
And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver staw the rose. 

But left the thorn wi' me. 

R. Burns 



ym 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY 

A Pindaric Ode 

A WAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake, 
\\. And give to rapture all thy trembling stiings. 









Book Third 



m 




From Helicon's harmonious springs 

A thousand rills their mazy progress take : 
The laughing flowers that round them blow 
Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
Now the rich streatTi of Music winds along 
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 
Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign ; 
Now rolling down the steep amain 
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : 
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar. 

O Sovereign of the willing soul. 
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, 
Enchanting shell ! the sullen Cares 

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War 
Has curb'd the fury of his car 
And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command. 
Perching on the sceptred hand 
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king 
With rufiled plumes, and flagging wing : 
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie 
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. 

Thee the voice, the dance, obey 

Temper'd to thy warbled lay. 

O'er Idalia's velvet-green 

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 

On Cytherea's day. 

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 

Frisking light in frolic measures ; 

Now pursuing, now retreating, 

Now in circling troops they meet : 
To brisk notes in cadence beating 

Glance their many-twinkling feet. 






The Golden Treasury 

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare ; 

Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay : 
With arms sublime that float upon the air 

In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. 

Man's feeble race what ills await ! 
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train. 

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate I 
The fond complaint, my song, disprove, 
And justify the laws of Jove. 
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse ? 
Night, and all her sickly dews, 
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding crj' 
He gives to range the dreary sky : 
Till down the eastern cliffs afar 
Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. 

In climes beyond the solar road 
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam. 
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom 

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the odorous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid. 
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat 
In loose numbers wildly sweet 
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. 
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, 
Glory i^ursue, and generous Shame, 
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame. 

Woods, Uiat wave o'er Delphi's steep, 
Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep. 





,ir.oa?;ym''^-^''f^-.-.^^ ■ 



Book Third 



159 



Fields that cool Ilissus laves 

Or where Maeander's amber waves 

In lingering lab'rinths creep, 

How do your tuneful echoes languish. 

Mute, but to the voice of anguish ! 

Where each old poetic mountain 

Inspiration breathed around ; 
Every shade and hallow'd fountain 

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound : 
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour. 

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains, 
Alilve they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, 

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 
They sought, O Albion ! next, thy sea-encircled coast 

Far from the sun and summer-gale 
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid. 
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd. 

To him the mighty Mother did unveil 
Her awful face : the dauntless Child 
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. 
This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear 
Richly paint the vernal year : 
Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy ! 
This can unlock the gates of Joy ; 
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. 





Nor second He, that rode sublime 
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy 
The secrets of the Abyss to spy : 

He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time 
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze 
Where Angels tremble while they gaze. 



.!^?W ^^i 



^ jffi' 



■:-Ui^»- -^ 



1 60 



T/ie Golden Treasury 



He saw ; but blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car 
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear 
Two coursers of ethereal race 

With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding 
pace. 





Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er. 
Scatters from her pictured urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that bum. 

But ah ! 't is heard no more 

O ! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit 
Wakes thee now ! Tho' he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 

That the Theban Eagle bear, 
Sailing with supreme dominion 

Thro' the azure deep of air : 
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 

Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray 
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun :' 

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate : 
Beneath the Good how far — but far above the Great 

T. Gray 

CXLI 

THE PASSIONS 
An Ode for Mnsic 

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young. 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell 



Book Third 



i6j 




Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined : 
'Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd %vith fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound, 
And, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art. 
Each, for Madness ruled the hour. 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid. 

And back recoil'd, he knew not why. 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings ; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre 

And swept with hurried hand the stringi. 




With woeful measures wan Despair — 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair. 
What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale 

She call'd on Echo still through all the song ; 





1 62 



The Golaen Treasvry 



And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden 
hair ; — 






And longer had she sung : — but with a frown 

Revenge impatient rose : 
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ; 

And with a withering look 
The war-denouncing trumpet took 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 

And ever and anon he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between. 

Dejected Pity at his side 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from 
his head. 



Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd : 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd ; 

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hata 



'mm 




With eyes up-raised, as one inspired, 

Pale Melancholy sat retired ; 

And from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes by distance made more sweet, 

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul 8 

And dashing soft from rocks around 

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stol^ 



k 



^»s^n 





Book Third 163 

Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, 

Round an holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace, and lonely musing. 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But O ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rang, 

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known ! 
The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen 

Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen 

Peeping from forth their alleys green : 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 

And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 

He, with viny crown advancing. 

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest : 

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best : 

They would have thought who heard the strain 
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids 
Amidst the festal-sounding shades 

To some unwearied minstrel dancing ; 

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings. 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay. 

Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 

O Music ! sphere-descended maid, 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid 1 



i 



.ir 





164 The Golden Treasury 

Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As in that loved Athenian bower 
You leam'd an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd ! 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders, in that god-like age. 
Fill thy recording Sister's page ; — 
'T is said, and I believe the tale, 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail. 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which chaims this laggard age, 
E'en all at once together found 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound : — 
O bid our vain endeavours cease : 
Revive the just designs of Greece : 
Return in all thy simple state ! 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

W. Collins 




%, 



t L.- 




CXLII 

ODE ON THE SPRING 

LO ! where tke rosy-bosom'd Hours , 
Fair Venus' train, appear. 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers 

And wake the purple year ! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 



^~^}/D:.AiA^^ 



_ -i-^^Str"": 





Book Third 

The untaught haiTnony of Spring : 
While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
Their gather'd fragrance fling. 

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader, browner shade. 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'er-canopies the glade. 
Beside some water's rushy brink 
With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardour of the Crowd, 
How low, how little are the Proud, 

How indigent the Great ! 

Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 

The panting herds repose : 
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled ail 

The busy murmur glows ! 
The insect youth are on the wing. 
Eager to taste the honied spring 
And float amid the liquid noon : 
Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
Some show their gaily-gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of Man : 
And they that creep, and they that fly 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter thro' life's little day. 
In Fortune's varying colours drest t 



i6S 





[66 





The Golden Treasury 

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance 
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance 
They leave, in dust to rest 

Methinks I hear in accents low 

The sportive kind reply : 
Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 

A solitary fly ! 
Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 
No painted plumage to display : 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 

We frolic while 't is May. 

T. Gray 



CXLIII 
THE POPLAR FIELD 




THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves. 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew : 
And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat ; 
And the scene where his melody charm'd me before 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 




Book Third 




167 



My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my he4d. 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

'T is a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we, 
W, Cowper 

CXLIV 

TO A FIELD MOUSE 

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O what a panic 's in thy breasiie I 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee 
Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

I 'm truly sorry man's dominion 

Has broken nature's social union. 

And justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 

At me, thy poor earth-bom companion. 

And fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live 1 

A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 

I '11 get a blessin' wi' the lave. 

And never miss 't ! 



¥ 



l6S The Golden Treasury 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ; 
And naething, now, to big a new ane, 
O' foggage green ! 

And bleak December's winds ensuin' 
Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste 

And weary mnter comin' fast 

And cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 

Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou 's turn'd out for a' thy trouble 
But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble 
And cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice and men 
Gang aft a-gley. 

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 
For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! 

The present only toucheth thee ; 

But, och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ! 

And forward, the' I canna see, 

I guess and fear. 

li. Burns 





'^^^ 



:^mM 



Book Third 



CXLV 

A WISH 



169 



MINE be a cot beside the hill ; 
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill, 
With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet-gown and apron blue. 

The village-church among the trees, 
Where first our marriage-vows were given. 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to Heaven. 

S. Roge^ 



CXLVI 

TO EVENING 

' F aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 

. May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear 

Like thy own solemn springs. 

Thy springs, and dying gales ; 






_ __^^^',-~^. 




T5^«gsi5?^ 



170 



T/id Golden Treasury 



'^i 



O Nymph reserved, — while now the bright-hair'd sua 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy s'.virts 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed, 

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum, — 

Now teach me, maid composed. 

To breathe some soften'd strain 

Whose numbers, stealing through tliy dark'ning vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As musing slow I hail 

Thy genial loved return. 

For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slept in buds the day. 

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedga 
And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still 

The pensive Pleasures sweet, 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 



'\%' Sir;' i^^T^ 





■^10?!^^ 





Book Third 171 

Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 

That, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds and swelling floods, ; 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; 
And hears their simple bell ; and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own. 

And love thy favourite name ! 

W. Collins 

CXLVII 

ELEGY 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD 

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 







172 



The Golden Treasury 




Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
The nide Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing mom. 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall bum 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
No children nm to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the hai-vest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ! 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the Poor. 



Book Third 1 73 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave 
Await alike th' inevitable hour : — 
The paths -^i glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
Full many a flower is bom to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 





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174 



TAe Golden Treasury 




Til' applause of list'ning senates to command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
Their gro\^nng virtues, but their crimes confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never leam'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd. 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind 1 








Book Third 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonQur'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
Oft have we seen him at the peep of davm 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

One mom I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; 
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 



I7S 




The next with dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn. 





176 



The Golden Treasury' 



THE EPITAPH 



Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknowm ; 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy, mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to Misery all he had, a tear. 

He gain'd from Heaven, 't was all he wish'd, a friend, 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

T. Gray 



MARY MORISON 

OMARY, at thy window be, 
It is the wish'd, the tiysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 
That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure, 
The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, — 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 







Book Third 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 
' I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
' Ye are na Mary Morison. ' 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
Whase only faut is loving thee 1 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 
The thought o' Mary Morison. 

R. Bums 

CXLIX 

BONNIE LESLEY 

OSAW ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border i 
She 's gane, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee j 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 





178 The Golden Treasury 

He 'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say ' I canna wrang thee ! ' 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou 'rt hke themselves sae lovely 

That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There 's nane again sae bonnie. 

R. Bi'^^ts 



OMY Luve 's like a red, red rose 
That 's newly sprung in June i 

my Luve 's like the melodie 
That 's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry : 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 

1 will luve thee still, my dear. 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

R. Burns, 




k 






Book Third 



HIGHLAND MARY 

YE banks and braes and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 

For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, O ! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 



y^^^i.,^ 









i&b The Golden Treasury 

And mouldering now in silent dust 
That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 

But still within my bosom's core 
Shall live my Highland Mary. 

R. Burns 



AULD ROBIN GRAY 

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at 
hame, 
And a' the warld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, 
While my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Youngjamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; 
But saving a croun he had naething else beside : 
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea ; 
And the croun and the pund were baith for me. 

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, 

When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown 

awa; 
My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea — 
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; 
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e 
Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me ! 

My heart it said nay ; I look'd for Jamie back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; 
His ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee ? 
Or why do I live to cry, Wae 's me ? 



I'M 



5^^ 



'r 



'%-<^^^3 



Book Third 



i8i 



UJ^^ 



My father urgit sair : my mother didna speak ; 
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break ; 
They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea ; 
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he — 
Till he said, I 'm come hame to marry thee. 

sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; 
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away : 

1 wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee \ 
And why was I born to say, Wae 's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I '11 do my best a gude wife aye to be. 
For auld Robin Gray he is -kind unto me. 

Lady A. Lindsay 



DUNCAN GRAY 

DUNCAN Gray cam here to woo, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blythe Yule night wlien we were fou. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't : 

Maggie coost her head fu' high, 

Look'd asklent and unco skeigli, 

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd ; 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig ; 






.^l^m^^^^^^ 





182 T/ie Golden Treasury 

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleert and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn ! 

Time and chance are but a tide, 
Slighted love is sair to bide ; 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie dee ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

How it comes let doctors tell, 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal ; 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief a sigli she brings ; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things .' 

Duncan was a lad o' grace ; 
Maggie's was a piteous case ; 
Duncan could na ba.Iier death. 
Swelling pity sraoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they 're crouse and canty baith : 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ! 

R. Burns 



THE SAILOR'S WIFE 

AND are ye sure the news is true? 
And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
Is this a time to thinlv 0' wark ? 
Ye jades, lay by your wheel ; 
Is this the time to spin a thread, 

When CoUn 's at the door ? 
Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, 
And see him come ashore. 



'%^^' CtTv'^i^^. 



-5fe^ 





Book Third 

For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 

And gie to me my bigonet, 

My bishop's satin go\vn ; 
For I maun tell the baillie's wife 

That Colin 's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My stockins pearly blue ; 
It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman. 

For he 's baith leal and true. 



1S3 



Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot ; 
Gie little Kate her button gown 

And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes. 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
Its a' to please my ain gudeman. 

For he 's been long awa. 

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about. 

That Colin weel may fare ; 
And spread the table neat and clean. 

Gar ilka thing look braw, 
For wha can tell how Colin fared 

When he was far awa ? 




Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech 
His breath like caller air ; 






184 The Golden Treasury 

His very foot has music in 't 
As he comes up the stair — 

And will I see his face again ? 
And will I hear him speak ? 

I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 
In troth I 'm like to greet ! 

If Colin 's weel, and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave : 
And gin I live to keep him sae 

I 'm blest aboon the lave : 
And will I see his face again, 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 

In troth I 'm like to greet. 
For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 

W. y. Michle 



W^ 




JEAN 

Or a' the airts the wind can blaw 
I dearly like the West, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 
Is ever wi' my Jean. 




I see her in the dewy flowers, 
I see her sweet and fair : 




'A 'I' 



Book Third 

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There 's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There 's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees ; 
\Vi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 

That 's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

What sighs and vows amang the know«s 

Hae pass'd atween us twa ! 
How fond to meet, how wae to part 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The Powers aboon can only ken 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! 

R. Burns 



CLVI 

JOHN' ANDERSON 

JOHN Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent : 









1 86 The Golden Treasury 

But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither. 
And mony a canty day, John, 
We 've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we '11 go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson my jo. 

R. Burns 

CLVII 

THE LAND ff THE LEAL 

I'M wearing awa', Jean, 
Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, 
I 'm wearing awa' 

To the land o' the leal. 
There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
The day is aye fair 
In the land o' the leak 

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, 
Your task 's ended noo, Jean, 
And I '11 welcome you 

To the land o' the leal. 
Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, 
She was baith guid and fair, Jeati, 
O we grudged her right sair 

To the land o' the leal ! 



6ft'' 





** But blessingi. _.. ^„..- _,, jsty pow, 
John Anderson, 7ny j'o." — Page i86. 




Book Third 187 

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
And angels wait on me 

To the land o' the leal. 
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
This warld 's care is vain, Jean ; 
We 11 meet and aye be fain 

In the land 0' the leal. 

Lady Nairn 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
COLLEGE 

YE distant spires, ye antique towers 
That crown the wat'ry glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoaiy Thames along 

His silver-winding way : 



Ah happy hills ! ah pleasing shade ! 

Ah fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 
As waving fresh their gladsome wing 
My weary soul they seem to soothe, , 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 








' The Golden Treasury 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave ? 
The captive linnet which enthral ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed 

Or urge the flying ball ? 

While some on earnest business bent 

Their murmuring labours ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign 
And unknown regions dare descry : 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind 
And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed, 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue. 
Wild Wit, Invention ever new, 
And lively Cheer, of Vigour bom ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light 

That fly th' approach of mom. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom 
The little victims play ! 






Book Third 

No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day ; 
Yet see how all around 'em wait 
The ministers of human fate 
And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah shew them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murderous band 1 

Ah, tell them tliey are men ! 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The \'ultures of the mind, 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth 
That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye. 
That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing vrild 
Amid severest woe. 

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath 

A griesly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their Queen : 



189 





190 The Golden Treasury 

This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
That every labouring sinew strains, 
Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand. 
And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men, 

Condemn'd alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

Til' unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 
And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their paradise ! 
No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 

'T is folly to be wise. 

T. Gray 



HYMN TO ADVERSITY 

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power. 
Thou tamer of the human breast, 
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 

The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
Bound in thy adamantine chain 
The proud are taught to taste of pain. 
And purple tyrants vainly groan 
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 

When first thy Sire to send on earth 
Virtue, his darling child, design'd, 

To Jiee he gave the heavenly birth, 
And bade to form her infant mind. 



■\ 




Book Third 



m 



Stem rugged Nurse ! thy rigid lore 
With patience many a year she bore : 
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
And from her own she leam'd to melt at others' woe. 

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly 

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 

And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse, and with them go 
The summer Friend, the flattering Foe ; 
By vain Prosperity received 
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed 

Wisdom in sable garb array'd 

Immersed in rapturous thought profound, 
And Melancholy, silent maid. 

With leaden eye, that loves the ground, 
Still on thy solemn steps attend : 
Warm Charity, the general friend, 
With Justice, to herself severe, 
And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 

O, gently on thy suppliant's head 

Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! 
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 

Not circled with the vengeful band 
(As by the impious thou art seen) 
With thundering voice, and threatening mien. 
With screaming Horror's funeral cry. 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty : 

Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear, 
Thy milder influence impart, 



I>^ 





The Golden Treasury 

Thy philosophic train be there 

To soften, not to wound my heart 
The generous spark extinct revive, 
Teach me to love and to forgive, 
Exact my own defects to scan, 
What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. 
T. Gray 



THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK 

I AM monarch of all I survey ; 
My right there is none to dispute ; 
From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone. 
Never hear the sweet music of speech ; 
I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain 
My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man. 
Their tameness is shocking to me. 



Society, Friendship, and Love 
Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O had I the wings of a dove 
How soon would I taste you again ! 






Book Third 

My sorrows I then might assuage 
In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 
Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver and gold, 
Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 
These valleys and rocks never heard ; 
Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport. 

Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more : 

My friends, do they now and then send 

A msh or a thought after me ? 

O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind. 
And the swift- winged arrows of light. 
AMifin I think of my own native land 
In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But alas ! recoUftction at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 
The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
13 



193 






The Golden Treasury 

Even here is a season of rest, 
And I to my cabin repair. 
There 's mercy in eveiy place, 
And mercy, encouraging thought I 
Gives even affliction a grace 
And reconciles man to his lot. 

W. Cowper 



CLXI 

TO MARY UNWIN 

MARY ! I want a lyre with other strings, 
Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they 
drew, 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 
And imdebased by praise of meaner things, 

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings 
1 may record thy worth with honour due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true 
And that immortalizes whom it sings : — 

But thou hast little need. There is a Book 
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 

A chronicle of actions just and bright — 
There all thy deeds, my faithful Maiy, shine ; 
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mina 

W. Ccwper ■ 



J^^W 



y 




fcji^ri 




Book Third 



TO THE SAME 



THE twentieth year is well nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah would that this might be the last ! 
My Mary ! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow — 
'T was my distress that brought thee low, 
My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 
My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 
My Mary ! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language utter'd in a dream ; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. 
My Mary ! 





'I 



196 The Golden Treastny 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 
My Mary ! 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 
My Maiy ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine. 
My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st 
That now at eveiy step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st, 
My Mary ! 

And still to love, though press'd with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill. 
With me is to be lovely still. 
My Mary ! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe^ 
My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last — 
My Mary ! 

W. CowJ)er 




^^y'" 



Book Third 



197 



■"-'S'f.'>'^ 




THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN 

WHY, Damon, with the foi"ward day 
Dost thou thy little spot survey. 
From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer, 
Pursue the progress of the year, 
What winds arise, what rains descend. 
When thou before that year shalt end ? 

What do thy noontide walks avail. 
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail, 
Then wantonly to death decree 
An insect usefuUer than thee ? 
Thou and the worm are brother-kind. 
As low, as earthy, and as blind. 




Vain wretch ! canst thou expect to see 

The downy peach make court to thee ? 

Or that thy sense shall ever meet 

The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet 

Exhaling with an evening blast ? 

Thy evenings then will all be past ! 

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green 
(For vanity 's in little seen), 
All must be left when Death appears. 
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears ; 
Nor one of all thy plants that grow 
But Rosemary will with thee go. 

G, Stwdl 








igS The Golden Ti-easury 



TO-MORROW 

IN the downhill of life, when I find I 'm declining, 
May my lot no less fortunate be 
Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, 

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ; 
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn. 

While I carol away idle sorrow. 
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn 
Look forward with hope for to-morrow. 

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, 

As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; 
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too. 

With a barn for the use of the flail : 
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game. 

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; 
I '11 envy no nabob his riches or fame, 

Nor what honours await him to-morrow. 

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely 

Secured by a neighbouring hill ; 
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly 

By the sound of a murmuring rill : 
And while peace and plenty I find at my board, 

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow. 
With my friends may I share what to-day may afford. 

And let them spread the table to-morrow. 



And when I at last must throw off this frail covering 
Which I 've worn for three-score years and ten, 

On the brink of the grave I '11 not seek to keep hoverin; 
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : 




,,,v^. 







Book Third 

But my face in the glass I '11 serenely survey, 

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; 

As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day. 
May become everlasting to-morrow. 

— CoIUtis 



LIFE ! I know not what thou art. 
But know that thou and I must part ; 
And when, or how, or where we met 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 

Life ! we 've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
'T is hard to part when friends are dear — 
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
— Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 

A. L.,Barlauld 




____«^S5^|^> 





4 




BOOK FOURTH 



07\r FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER. 

MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 

— Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez — when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific, and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

J. Keats 






Book Fourth 



ODE ON THE POETS 

BARDS of Passion and of Mirth 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
— Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wonderous 
And the parle of voices thunderous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented. 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not ; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 




Of their sorrows and delights ; 

Of their passions and their spites ; 

Of their gloiy and their shame ; 

What doth strengthen and what maim : — 

Thus ye teach us, every day, 

Wisdom, though fled far away. 






Bards of Passion and of Mirth 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new ! 

7. Keats 

CLXviir 

LOVE 

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listen'd to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light 








The Golden Treasury 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometunes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came and look'd him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that unknowing what he did. 
He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain ; 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave, 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 



— His dying words — but when I reach'd 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb'd her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 



;2a;/ vir^- 





Book Fourth 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and ch'erish'd long 

She wept with pity and delight. 
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame s 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside. 
As conscious of my look she stept ^ 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She tied to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms. 
She press'd me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, look'd up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'T was partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 't was a bashful art 
That I might rather feel, than see 
The swelling of her heart. 



205- 





I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 

.5'. T. Coleridge 







2o6 The Golden Treasury 

CLXIX 

ALL FOR LOVE 

OTALK not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoaiy — 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? 



Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was less fo;: the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 

1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

Lord Byron 



CLXX 

THE OUTLAW 

OBRIGNALL banks are wild and fair. 
And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer-queen. 




^f 




Book Fourth 

And as I rode by Dalton-Hall 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle-wall 

Was singing merrily : 
' O Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. ' 

' If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me. 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 

As blithe as Queen of May. ' 
Yet sung she ' Brignall banks are fair. 

And Greta woods are gi'een ; 
I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

' I read you by your bugle-horn 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood.' 
' A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 't is at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry mom, 

And mine at dead of night ' 
Yet sung she ' Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there 

To reign his Queen of May ! 





zq8_. The Golden Treasury 

' With burnish'd brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold Dragoon 

That lists the tuck of drum. ' 
' I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum 

My comrades take the spear. 
And O 1 though Brignall banks be fair 

And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare 

Would reign my Queen of May. 

' Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I '11 die ! 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when I 'm with my comrades met 

Beneath the greenwood bough, 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. ' 

Chorus 

Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair. 
And Greta woods are green. 

And you may gather garlands there 
Would grace a summer-queen. 

Sir W. Scott 






•dm 




fm. 



Book FoiirtA 209 



THERE be none of Beauty's daughters 
With a magic like Thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the luU'd wirids seem dreaming : 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep, 

Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee 

,To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

like the swell of Summer's ocean. 

Lord Byrom 




LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR 

I ARISE from dreams of Thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night. 
When the winds are breathing low 
And the stars are shining bright : 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? 
To thy chamber-window. Sweet 1 
14 










T/w Golden T7'easury 

The wandering airs they faint 
On the dark, the silent stream — 
The champak odours fail 
Like sweet tlioughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint 
It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine 
O beloved as thou art ! 



lift me from the grass ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast ; 
O ! press it close to thine again 
Where it will break at last. 

P. B. Shelley 



i^^l 



SHE walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies. 
And all that 's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes, 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 



One shade the more, one ray the less 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 



A^i" 





Book Fourth 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow 

But tell of days in goodness spent, — 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byron 



SHE was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleam'd upon my sight ; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free^ 

And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine : 







-:S^:J^' 




The Golden Treasury 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death : 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly plannVl 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

IV. Wordsworth 

CLXXV 

SHE is not fair to outward view 
As many maidens be ; 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me. 
O then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold. 

To mine they ne'er reply. 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye : 
Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

ff. Coleridge 



I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden ; 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; 
Thou needest not fear mine ; 




c^''*irr ^S:» "^V^ 



'3ii^pS 




^"^^s^^^ 





Book Fourth 

Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 

P. B. Shelley 

CLXXVII 

THE LOST LOVE 

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove ; 
• A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love. 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half-hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and O ! 

The difference to me ! 

W. Wordsworth 



ITRAVELL'D among unknown men 
In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 
What love I bore to thee. 

'T is past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time, for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 




Among thy mountains did I fee! 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd 
The bowers where Lucy play'd ; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes survey'd. 

W. Wordsworth 

CLXXIX 
THE EDUCATION OF NATURE 

THREE years she grew in sun and shower j 
Then Nature said, ' A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown : 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own. 

' Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

' She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And her's shall be the breathing balm. 
And her's the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 



^ 



iin 






Book Fourth 

'The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her ; for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

E'en in the motions of the storm 

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

' The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward rounds 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

' And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell.' 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done- 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 
And never more will be. 

W. Wordsworth 



215 




A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 
I had no human fears : 
She seem'd a thing that could not feel 
The touch of earthly years. 



2l6 






The Golden Treasury 

No motion has she now, no force j 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
RolI'd round in earth's diurnal course 

With rocks, and stones, and trees ! 

W. Wordsworth 



CLXXXI 

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound 
Cries ' Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I '11 give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry ! ' 

' Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyl* 
This dark and stormy water ? ' 
' O I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this. Lord UUin's daughter. 

' And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together, 
For should he find us in the glen. 
My blood would stain the heather. 

"His horsemen hard behind us ride — 
Should they our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover ! ' 








Out spoke the hardy Highland wight 
' I '11 go, my chief, 1 'm ready : 
It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady : — • 



Book Fourth 

' And by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tany ; 
So though the waves are raging white 
I '11 row you o'er the ferry.' 



317 




By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind ' 
And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men. 
Their trampling soimded nearer. 

' O haste thee, haste ! ' the lady cries, 
' Though tempests round us gather ; 
I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angiy father. ' 

The boat has left a stormy land, 
A stormy sea before her, — 
When, O ! too strong for human hand 
The tempest gather'd o'er her. 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, — 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismay 'd, through storm and shade 
His child he did discover : — 
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
And one was round her lover. 






../^g ffM ii,. 



2lS The Golden Treasury 

*" Come back ! come back ! ' he cried in grief 

' Across this stormy water : 

And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 

My daugliter ! — O my daughter ! 

'T was vain : the load waves lash'd the shore, 

Return or aid preventing : 

The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 

T. Canifil/ell 



JOCK O' HAZELDEAN 

'"XT THY weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

V V Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I '11 wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride : 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

' Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

' A chain of gold ye sail not lack. 
Nor braid to bind your hair. 



y\'$ 



.■ii^^m 



-v^ Vv *» «! " "^ |S -<«i. 



•'Si^s^H 



%r-\^ 



k 





Book Fourlh 2ig 

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you the foremost o' them a' 

Shall ride our forest-queen ' — 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide. 

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there : 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She 's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 

Sir W. Scott 

CLXXXIII 

FREEDOM AND LOVE 

HOW delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at love's beginning. 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there 's no untying ! 

Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, 
Love has bliss, but Love has ming ; 
Other smiles may make you fickle, 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love he tarries. 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays, when sorest chidden ; 
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden. 





The Golden Treasitry 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odour to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
Then bind Love to last for ever. 

Love 's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel : 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, 

Only free, he soars enraptured. 




Can you keep the bee from ranging 
Or the ringdove's neck from changing? 
No ! nor fetter'd Love from dying 
In the knot there 's no untying. 

T. Campbell 

CLXXXIV 

LOVES PHILOSOPHY 

THE fountains mingle with the river 
And the rivers with the ocean, 
The winds of heaven mix for ever 
With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single, 
All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — • 
"Why not I with thine ? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven 
And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 
If it disdain'd its brother : 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -^ 




Book Foiirtk 

What are all these kissings worth, 
If thou kiss not me ? 

P. B. Shelley 





CLXXXV 

ECHOES 

HOW sweet the answer Echo makes 
To Music at night 
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes» 
And far away o'er lawns and lakes 
Goes answering light ! 

Yet Love hath echoes truer far 

And far more sweet 

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 

Of horn or lute or soft guitar 

The songs repeat. 

'T is when the sigh, — in youth sincere 
And only then, 

The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear — 
Is by that one, that only Dear 
Breathed back again. 

T. Moore 



vr-^' 



CLXXXVI 

A SERENADE 

AH ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 
The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
The breeze is on the sea. 



IM 




The Golden Treasury 

The lark, his lay who trill'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy ? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
To beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-bom Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above, 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky. 
And high and low the influence know — 

But where is County Guy ? 

Sir W. Scoit 

CLXXXVIl 

TO THE EVENING STAR 

GEM of the crimson-colour'd Even, 
Companion of retiring day. 
Why at the closing gates of heaven 
Beloved Star, dost thou delay 2 

So fair thy pensile beauty burns 
When soft the tear of twilight flows ; 
So due thy plighted love returns 
To chambers brighter than the rose ; 

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love 
So kind a star thou seem'st to be. 
Sure some enamour'd orb above 
Descends and burns to meet with thee ! 



Thine is the breathing, blushing hour 
When all unheavenly passions fly. 




-^^l«v^-^ 





Book Fourth 

Chased by tlie soul-subduing power 
Of Love's delicious witchery. 

O ! sacred to the fall of day 
Queen of propitious stars, appear, 
And early rise, and long delay 
When Caroline herself is here ! 

Shine on her chosen green resort 
Whose trees the sunward summit c"->wn, 
And wanton flowers, that well may ^^urt 
An angel's feet to tread them down : — 

Shine on her sweetly scented road 
Thou star of evening's purple dome, 
That lead'st the nightingale abroad. 
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home 

Shine where my charmer's sweeter Ir eath 
Embalms tire soft exhaling dew. 
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue : — 

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air 
Her silken tresses darkly flow 
And fall upon her brow so fair, 
Like shadows on the mountain snow 

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline 
In converse sweet to wander far — - 
O bring with thee my Caroline, 
And thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! 

T. Campf-^ 




^-^SgTi-^^ 



S24 



TAe Golden Treasury 





CLXXXVIII 

TO THE NIGHT 

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave^ 
Spirit of Niglit ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone^ 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 
Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied 

No, not thee ! 



^Z"^^^ 




225 




Booi Foiwth 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — ■ 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon ! 

P. B. Shelley 

CLXXXIX 
TO A DISTANT FRIEND 

WHY art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 

Yet have ray thoughts for thee been vigilant, 
Bound to thy service with unceasing care — 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 

Speak ! — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fiU'd with snow 
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! 
W. Wordsworth 




h 



:^U 





226 



The Golden Treasury 



WHEN we two parted 
In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted, 
To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold. 
Colder thy kiss ; 
Tiiily that hour foretold 
Sorrow to this ! 

The dew of the morning 
Sunk chill on my brow ; 
It felt like the warning 
Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken. 
And light is thy fame : 
I hear thy name spoken 
And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 
A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me—" 
Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee 
Who knew thee too well : 
Long, long shall I rue thee 
Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met : 

In silence I grieve 

That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit decfeive. 



% 



£5'J-ti^ 




Book Fourth 

If I should meet thee 
After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 
With silence and tears. 

Lord Byron 



327 




HAPPY INSENSIBILITY 

IN a drear-nighted December 
Too happy, happy Tree 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity ; 
The north cannot undo them 
With a sleety whistle through them. 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December 
Too happy, happy Brook 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting 
They stay their crystal fretting. 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah would 't were so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy ? 
To know the change and feel it. 
When there is none to heal it 
Nor numbed sense to steal it — ■ 
Was never said in rhyme. 

7. fCeats 




i 





228 The Golden Treasury 



WHERE shall the lover rest 
Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast 

Parted for ever ? 
Where, through groves deep ai? oigh 

Sounds the far billow, 
Where early violets die 
Under the willow. 

Eleu loro 
Soft shall be his pillow. 

There, through the summer day 

Cool streams are laving : 
There, while the tempests sway, 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There thy rest shall thou take. 

Parted for ever, 
Never again to wake 

Never, O never ! 
Eleu loro 

Never, O never ! 

Where shall the traitor rest. 

He, the deceiver, 
W^ho could win maiden's breas^ 

Ruin, and leave her ? 
In the lost battle. 

Borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying ; 
Eleu loro 

There shall he be lying. 






Book Fourth 229 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap 

Ere life be parted : 
Shame and dishonour sit 

By his grave ever ; 
Blessing shall hallow it 

Never, O never ! 
Eleu loro 

Never, O never ! 

Sir W. Scott 

cxcni 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

^ (~\ WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

\-J Alone and palely loitering ? 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 

' O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

So haggard and so woe-begone 1 
The squiiTel's granary is full, 

And the harvest 's done. 

' I see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever-deir. 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 

Fast withereth too. ' 

* I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful — a faiiy 's child, 
Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

And her eyes were wild. 





230 The Golden Treasury 

' I made a garland for her head, 
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

She look'd at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

' I set her on my pacing steed 

And nothing else saw all day long, 

For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A fairy's song. 

' She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild and manna-dew, 

And sure in language strange she said 
"I love thee true." 

' She took me to her elfin grot. 
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, 

And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
With kisses four. 

' And there she lulled me asleep, 
And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 

The latest dream I ever dream'd 
On the cold hill's side. 

' I saw pale kings and princes too. 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried — " La belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! " 





' I saw their starved lips in the gloam 
With horrid warning gaped wide. 

And I awoke and found me here 
On the cold hill's side. 



-Sa^ 





rd^sst 




Book Fourth 231 

' And this is why I sojourn here 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake 

And no birds sing. ' 

J. Keats 



THE ROVER 

< A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 
jlV. a weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine. 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

No more of me you knew 
My Love ! 
No more of me you knew. 

' The morn is merry Jtme, I trow, 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again. ' 
He turn'd his charger as he spake 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave the bridle-reins a shake. 

Said ' Adieu for evermore 
My Love ! 
And adieu for evermore. ' 

Sir W. ScoH 





^%i^^,^^^ , 



- 1^- 




132. The Golden Treasury 

cxcv 
THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 

WHEN the lamp is shatter'd 
The Hght m the dust lies dead — 
When the cloud is scatter'd, 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 
When the lute is broken, 
Sweet tones are remember'd not ; 
When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 

As music and splendour 

Survive not the lamp and the lute. 

The heart's echoes render 

No song when the spirit is mute — 

No song but sad dirges. 

Like the wiiid through a ruin'd cell. 

Or the mournful surges ' ; 

That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled, 

Love first leaves the well-built nest ; 

The weak one is singled 

To endure what it once pos,,esst. 

O Love ! who bewailest 

The frailty of all things her«, 

Why choose you the frailest 

For your cradle, your home, and your biert 

Its passions will rock thee 

As the storms rock the ravens on high , 

Bright reason will mock thee 

TJke the sun from a wintry skj. 






Book Fourth " . 233 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 
Leave thee naked to laughter, 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

P. B. Shelley 




:^' 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see. 
And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
And love, in life's extremity 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Maiy's bower 
And slow decay from mourning. 
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower 
To watch her Love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright. 

Her form decay'd by pining, 
Till through her wasted hand, at night. 

You saw the taper shining. 
By fits a sultry hectic hue 

Across her cheelc was flying ; 
By fits so ashy pale she grew 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear 

Seem'd in her frame residing ; 
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear 

She heard her lover's riding ; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd 

She knew and waved to greet him, 
And o'er the battlement did bend 

As on the wing to meet him. 






r83-i The Golden Treasury 

He came — he pass'd — an heedless raze 

As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 

Lost in his courser's prancing — 
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone 

Returns each whisper spoken, 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 

Which told her heart was broken. 

Sir W. ScoU 

CXCVII 

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 

EARL March look'd on his dying child. 
And smit with grief to view her — 
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled 
Shall be restored to woo her. 

She 's at the window many an hour 

His coming to discover : 
And he look'd up to Ellen's bower 

And she look'd on her lover — 

But ah ! so pale, he knew her not. 

Though her smile on him was dwelling— 

And am I then forgot — forgot ? 
It broke the heart of Ellen. 



«^,i^ 



In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs. 

Her cheek is cold as ashes ; 
Nor, love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 

To lift their silken lashes. 

T. Campbell 




mi- 



^- 




'0 




Book Fourth 



BRIGHT Star ! would I were steadfast as thou art - 
Not in lone splendour hiing aloft the night, 
And watching, with eternal lids apart, 
Like nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 

The moving waters at their priestlike task 
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors : — 

No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest ; 




Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 

J. Keats 

CXCIX 

THE TERROR OF DEATH 

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 
Hold like rich garners the fuU-ripen'd grain ; 

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face. 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance ; 





236 



The. Golden Treamry 





And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour \ 
That I shall never look upon thee more, 
Never have relish in the fairy power 
Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 

J. Keats 

cc 
D ESI DERI A 

SURPRISED by joy — impatient as the wind — . 
I turn'd to share the transport — O with whom 
But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb. 
That spot which no vicissitude can find ? 

Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind — 
But how could I forget thee ? through what power 
Even for the least division of an hour 
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 

To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return 
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
;That neither present time, nor years rmborn 
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 

W. Wordsworth 






" Afzd tJioit art dead^ as young and fair. ^'' — Page 237. 




^aaw.-: 






Book Fourth 



AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, 
I fly 
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in 

thine eye ; 
And I tliink oft, if spirits can steal from the regions 

of air 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me 

there 
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky ! 

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear 
When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on 

the ear ; 
And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison 

rolls, 
I think, O my Love ! 't is thy voice, from the Kingdom 

of Souls 
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. 

T. Moore 



ELEGY ON THYRZA 

AND thou art dead, as young and fair 
As aught of mortal birth ; 
And forms so soft and charms so rare 

Too soon retum'd to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed. 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. • 





The Golden Treasury 

I will not ask where thou liest low 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved and long must love 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell 
'T is Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last, 

As fervently as thou 
Who didst not change through all the past 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 

The leaves must drop away. 







Book Fourth 

And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluclv'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that foUow'd such a mom 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last, 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed 
To think I was not near, to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed : 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace. 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain. 

Though thou hast left me free, 
The lovehesf things that still remain 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me. 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught except its living years. 

Lord Byron 



239 



240 



The Golden Treasury 



ONE word is too often profaned 
For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdain'd 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 
For prudence to smother, 
And Pity from thee more dear 
Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love ; 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not : 
The desire of the moth for the star. 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 

P. B. Shelley 



GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE 
BLACK 

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu 
Pibroch of Donuil 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan Conuil. 

Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 

Come in your war-array, 

Gentles and commons. 




Book Fourth 

Come from deep glen, and: 

From mountain so rocky ; 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlocky. 
Come eveiy hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd. 

The flock without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd. 

The bride at the altar ; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear. 

Broadswords and targes. 



^^''tf) 




Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended. 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster. 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 

Forward each man set ! 
i6 




242 The Golden Treasury 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 
Knell for the onset ! 

Sir W. Scott 



A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
A wind that follows fast 
And fills the white and rustling sail 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While like th-s eagle free 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 



O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There 's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
But hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

A. Cunningham 






Book Fourth 



YE Mariners of England 
That guard our native seas ! 
Wliose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launch again 
To match another foe : 
And sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave — 
For the deck it was their field of fame. 
And Ocean was their grave : 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



,y '^^r c'jf 




:M 




M 






^44 77/(f Golden Treasury 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn ; 
Till danger's troubled night depart 
And tlie star of peace return. ., 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 
' Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name. 
When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
When the fieiy fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 

, , T. Camp 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

OF Nelson and the North 
Sing the glorious day's renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown. 
And her arms along the deep proudly shooe ; 
By each gun the lighted brand 
In a bold determined hand, 
And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime t 

As they drifted on their path 

There was silence desp as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 



V 




w.^^-^-' 





Book Fourth 



245 





But the might of England flush'd 

To anticipate the scene ; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between, 

' Hearts of oak ! ' our captains cried, when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack. 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom !— 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'd sail 

Ox in conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. : 

Out spoke the victor then 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave, 

' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

So peace instead of death let us bring t 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 

With the crews, at England's feet. 

And make submission meet 

To our King. ' - 

Then Denmark blest our chief ~' 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose, 





h 



■24J The Golden Treasury 

As death withdrew his shades from the day : 
While the sun look'd smiHng bright 
O'er a wide and woeful sight, 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep 
By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 



1^^ 



Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so tree. 

On the deck of fame that died 

With the gallant good Riou : 

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls 

And the mermaid's song condoles 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave I 

T. 



CCVIII 

ODE TO DUTV 



STERN Daughter of the voice of God ! 
O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 





Boak Foicrlh 247 

Thoa who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe : 
From vain temptations dost set free, 
A.nd calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ' 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot. 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
O ! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around their 
cast 

Serene will be our days and bright 
And happy will our nature be 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet find that other strength, according to their need. ' 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 
No sport of every random gust. 
Yet being to myself a guide. 
Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, 1 deferr'd 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 



W^^"S 




Through no disturbance of my soul 
Or strong compunction in me wrought. 



248 



The Golden Treasury 





I supplicate for thy controul, 
But in the quietness of thought : 
Me this uncharter'd freedom tires ; 
I feel the weight of chance desires : 
My hopes no more must change their nam« , 
I long for a repose which ever is the same. 

Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresfc 
and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power 1 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
O let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live. 
VV. Wordsworth 

CCIX 

ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON 

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art — ■ 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of Thee alone can bind ; 






"^0 




Book Fourth 249 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place 

And thy sad floor an altar, for 't was trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

Lord Byron 



ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND 
1802 

TWO Voices are there, one is of the Sea, 
One of the Mountains, each a mighty voice x. 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven v 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

— Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 
For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee ! 

W. Words'.oorth 








25° 



Tlie Golden Treasurv 




ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 
And was the safeguard of the West ; the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, tlie eldest child of liberty. 

She was a maiden city, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And when she took unto herself a mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 
Vet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
AVhen her long life hath reach'd its final day : 
]\Ien are we, and must grieve when even the shade 
Of that which once was great has pass'd away. 

W. Wordyworth 

CCXII 
LONDON, MDCCCII 

O FRIEND ! I know not which way ^ Tiust look 
For comfort, being, as I am, oppres* 
To think that now our life is only drest 
For show ; rnean handiwork of craftsman, cor^V, 





Or groom ! — We must nm glittering like i brooli 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest ; 
The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
No grandeur now in Nature or in book 



»^?frT^^i>-^-- 




Book Fmirth 

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 
This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 
Plain living and high thinking are no more : 




The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone ; our peace, our feai^ful innocence, 
And pure religion breathing household laws. 
W. Wordsworth 



CCXIII 

THE SAME 

MILTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hoar : 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : 
O ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou liadst a voice whose sound was like the sea. 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; 

So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

W. Wordswori.h. 




252 



The Golden Treasury 




WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed 
Great nations ; how ennobling thoughts depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed? 

But when I think of thee, and what thou art. 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. ' 

For dearly must we prize thee ; we who' find 
In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 
And I by my affection was beguiled : 

What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

W. Wordsworik 

ccxv 
HOHENLINDEN 

ON Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight. 
When the drum beat at dead of night 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 





^^ 




Book Foiti'th 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 



2S3 



fif'7/ 



OM 




Then shook the hills vifith thunder riven ; 
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven ; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far fiash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 

On Linden's hills of stained snow ; 

And bloodier yet the torrent flow 

Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'T is mom ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet \ 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet. 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

T. Campbell 




254 



The Golden Treasury 



CCXVI 

AFTER BLENHEIM 

IT was a sumHjer evening, 
Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found 

That was so large and smooth and round 




Old Kaspar took it from the boy 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh 
"T is some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 
' Who fell in the great victory. ' 

' I find them in the garden, 
For there 's many here about ; 

And often when I go to plough 
The ploughshare turns them out. 

For many thousand men, ' said he, 

' Were slain in that great victory. ' 

'Now tell us what 't was all about,' 
Young Peterkin he cries ; 



'■uJUiKIRUURaa 





Book Fottrth 

And little Wilhelmine looks up 
With wonder-Avaiting eyes ; 

* Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they fought each other for.' 

' It was the English, ' Kaspar cried, 
' Who put the French to rout ; 

But what they fought each other for 
I could not well make out. 

But every body said, ' quoth he, 

' That \ was a famous victory. 

' My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly : 
So Avith his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

* With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide. 
And many a childing mother then 

And new-born baby died : 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

' They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun : 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

' Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 
And our good Prince Eugene ; ' 





_^^BII3fi?!^, 



%^^^mr- 



^^ 



256 T/ie Golden Treasury 

' Why 't was a very wicked thing ! ' 

Said little Wilhelmine ; 
' Nay . . nay . . my little girl,' quoth he, 
' It was a famous victory. 

' And every body praised the Duke 
Who this great fight did win.' 

' But what good came of it at last ? ' 
Quoth little Peterkin : — 

'Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 

' But 't was a famous victory. ' 

R. Soidhey 



PRO PATRIA MORI 

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name 
Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resign'd ! 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 
I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 

Every thought of my reason was thine : 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
O ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 

T. Moore 






..-X^T^igy-: 



Book Fourth 



257 




THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOURE AT 
CORUNNA 

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him , 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow, 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was deaa. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hoUow'd his narrow bed 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
17 



Wf\f^ 






25S 



The Golden Treasury 



But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring : 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 



w 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — • 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

C. Wolfe 



J 



SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN 

IN the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, 
An old man dwells, a little man, 
I 've heard he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman meriy ; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 



i0^^ 



:i 



No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee, 

When Echo bandied round and roimd 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days he little cared 

For husbandly or tillage ; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 



He all the country could outrun. 

Could leave both man and horse behind ; 








Book Fourth 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reel'd and was stone-blind. 

And still there 's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices ; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices. 

But O the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see 

Old Simon to the world is left 

In liveried poverty : 

His master 's dead, and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick, 
His body dwindled and awry 
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
His legs are thin and dry. 
He has no son, he has no child ; 
His wife, an aged woman. 
Lives with him, near the waterfall. 
Upon the village common. 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay. 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
But what avails the land to them 
Which he can till no longer ? 






-z6o The Golden Treasury 

Oft, working by her husband's side, 

Rutli does wliat Simon cannot do ; 

For she, with scanty cause for pride. 

Is stouter of the two. 

And, though you with your utmost skill 

From labour could not wean them, 

'T is little, very little, all 

That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell. 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle reader, I perceive 

How patiently you 've waited. 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O reader ! had you in your mind 

Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

O gentle reader ! you would find 

A tale in everything. 

What more I have to say is short. 

And you must kindly take it : 

It is no tale ; but should you think, 

Perhaps a tale you '11 make it 

One summer-day I chanced to see 
This old man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree. 
A stump of rotten wood. 
The mattock totter'd in his hand : 
So vain was his endeavour 







jtBtBfmi^^ 








Booi Fourth 261 

•That at the root of the old tree 
He might have work'd for ever. 

' You 're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 

Give me your tool, ' to him I said ; 

And at the word right gladly he 

Received my proffer'd aid. 

I struck, and with a single blow 

The tangled root I sever'd, 

At which the poor old man so long 

And vainly had endeavour'd. 

The tears into his eyes were brought, 
And thanks and praises seem'd to run 
So fast out of his heart, I thought 
They never would have done, 
■ — I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
With coldness still returning ; 
Alas ! the gratitude of men 
Has oftener left me mourning. 

W. Wordsworth 



ccxx 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

1HAVE had playmates, I have had companions 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days ( 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 











202 The Golden Treasury 

I loved a Love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood. 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 



Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces. 

How some they have died, and some they have left ma 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old famiUar faces. 

C. 






THE JOURNEY ONWARDS 

AS slow our ship her foamy track 
Against the wind was cleaving. 
Her trembling pennant still look'd back 

To that dear isle 't was leaving. 
So loth we part from all we love. 

From all the links that bind us ; 

So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 

To those we 've left behind us ! 






Book Fourth 263- 

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 

We talk with joyous seeming — 
With smiles that might as well be tears. 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
O, sweet 's the cup that circles then 

To those we 've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet. 

And nought but love is wanting ; 
We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assign'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this. 

With some we 've left behind us ! 

As travellers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that 's left behind us. 

T. Moore 



CCXXII 

YOUTH AND AGE 

THERE 'S not a joy the world can give like that it 
takes away 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 
dull decay ; 




264 



The Golden Treasuty 




'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which 

fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the -wreck of 

happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 

again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 

comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the 

ice appears. 



Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast. 

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 
hope of rest ; 

'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe. 

All green and vpildly fresh without, but worn and gray 
beneath. 

O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd 

scene, — 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 

flow to me ! 

Lord Byron 




Book Fourth 



CCXXIII 

A LESSON 



26S- 





THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain. 
And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
Bright as the sun' himself, 't is out again ! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm. 
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it mufiled up from harm 
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, 
And recognized it, though an alter'd form. 
Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
' It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold ; 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
But its necessity in being old. 

' The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ; 
It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of liue,' 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 

To be a prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth; 
A miser's pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man ! that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 
W. Wordsworth 



ti'i^ A 





Si()6 TJu Golden Treasury 

CCXXIV 

PAST AND PRESENT 

I REMEMBER, I remember 
The liouse where I was bom. 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at mom ; 
He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 

The violets, and the lily-cups — 

Those flowers made of light ! 

The lilacs where the robin built^ 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing. 

And thought the air must msh as fresh 

To swallows on the wing ; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now. 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 
The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky : 



¥ 
^-:^ 











b.'j^ 




Book Fourth 26; 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 't is little joy 

To know I 'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

T. Hood 



THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 

OFT in the stilly night 
Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me : 
The smiles, the tears 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimm'd and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so link'd together 
I 've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in \vintry weather, 

I feel like one 

Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted. 

Whose lights are fled 

Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed ! 





•^ 






268 T/ie Golden Tyeasjtry. 

Thus in tlie stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound mCj 
Sad Memory brings the light 

Of other days around me. 

T. Moore 

CCXXVI 

INVOCATION 

RARELY, rarely, comest thou. 
Spirit of Delight ! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night ? 
Many a weary night and day 
'T is since thou art fled away. 

How shall ever one like me 

Win thee back again ? 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false ! thou hast forgot 
All but those who need thee not. 

As a lizard with the shade 
Of a trembling leaf, 
. Thou with sorrow art dismay'd j 
Even the sighs of grief 
I Reproach thee, that thou art not near, 

' And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

Let me set my mournful ditty 
To a merry measure ; — 

Thou wilt never come for pity, 
Thou wilt come for pleasure ; 





" / love irajiqxnl solittidc^'' — Page 269. 



k 



^&^,. 




■rsSisW 




Book Fourth 

Pity then will cut away 

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay, 

I love all that thou lovest, 

Spirit of Delight ! 
The fresh Earth in iiew leaves drest 

And the starry night ; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are bom. 

I love snow and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost ; 
I love waves, and winds, and storms. 

Everything almost 
Which is Nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude, 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good ; 

Between thee and me 
What diff 'rence ? but thou dost posses* 
The things I seek, not love them less. 



269 







I love Love — though he has wings, 

And like light can flee, 
And above all other things, 

Spirit, I love thee — 
Thou art love and life ! O come ! 
Make once more my heart thy home ! 

P. B. Shelley 





270 



The Golden Treasurv 



STANZAS V/RITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR 
NAPLES 



T' 



'HE sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains ■\\'ear 
The purple noon's transparent light : 
The breath of the moist air is light 
Around its unexpanded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight — 
The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods' — 
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore 
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown ; 
I sit upon the sands alone ; 
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion — 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my- emotion 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
Nor peace within nor calm around. 
Nor that Content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found. 
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ; 
Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 








Book Fourth 271 

Yet now despair itself is mild 
Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 
Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
P. B. Shelley 

CCXXVIII 

THE SCHOLAR 

MY days among the Dead are past ; 
Around me I behold, 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
The mighty minds of old : 
My never failing friends are they. 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal 

And seek relief in woe ; 

And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe. 

My cheeks have often been bedew'd 

With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them 

I live in long-past years. 

Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears. 

And from their lessons seek and find 

Instruction vrith an humble mind. 






272 The Golden Treastcry 

My hopes are with the Dead ; anon 
My place with them will be, 
And I with them shall travel on 
Through all Futurity ; 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
That will not perish in the dust. 

R. Southey 



THE MERMAID TAVERN 

SOULS of Poets dead and gone 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of Venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 

Mine host's signboard flew away 

Nobody knew whither, till 

An astrologer's old quill 

To a sheepskin gave the story ^ 

Said he saw you in your glory 

Underneath a new-old Sign 

Sipping beverage divine. 

And pledging with contented smack 

The Mermaid in the Zodiac ! 



<£i: 





Book Fourth 






The Golden Treasury 

ccxxxi 
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 

ONE more Unfortunate 
Weary of breath 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully. 
Gently and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her — 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and undutiful : 
Past all dishonour, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 





Book Fourth 

Still, for all slips of hers. 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 
Who was her mother ? 
Had she a sister ? 
Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 



Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
O ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full. 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thro^vn from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 







v-V- t)X 



Z'j(y The Golden Treasury 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in tile river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river; . 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurl'd — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly. 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran, 
Over the brink of it, — 
Picture it, think of it. 
Dissolute Man ! 
Lave in it, drink of i^ 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly. 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashion'd 50 slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly. 




4''^t<m^^^' 






Book Fourth ZJJ 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth, and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them. 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 
Thro' muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurr'd by contumely 
Cold inhumanity 
Burning insanity 
Into her rest. 

— Cross her hands humbly 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behaviour, 
And leaving, with meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 

T. Hood 

CCXXXII 

ELEGY 

OSNATCH'D away in beauty's bloom ! 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year. 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 






273 Tke Golden Treasiny 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 

And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 

Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead 1 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
Will this unteach us to complain t 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
And thou, who tell'st me to forget, 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord Byron 



HESTER 

WHEN maidens such as Hester die 
Their place ye may not well supply. 
Though ye among a thousand try 

With vain endeavour. 
A month or more hath she been dead. 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her together. 



'>>\^ 



A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step, did indicate 

Of pride and joy no common rate 

That flush'd her spirit : 
I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call ; if 't was not pride. 
It was a joy to that allied 

She did inherit. 






Book Fourth 

Her parents held the Quaker rule 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 

Nature had blest her. 
A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind. 

Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore 

Some summer morning — 
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath strack a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 

A sweet forewarning ? 

C. Lamb 




CORONACH 

HE is gone on the mountain, 
He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The fount reappearing 

From the raindrops shall borrow 
But to us comes no cheering, 
To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary. 






eSo The Golden Treasury 

But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing ..,'. 

Waft tlie leaves that are serest, '!- 

But our flower was in flushing ^ : 

When blighting was nearest 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain. 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and forever ! 

Sir W. Scott 



ccxxxv 
THE DEA Tff BED 

WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night. 
Her breathing soft and low. 
As in her breast the wave of life 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

But when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with e.".rly showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another mora than ours. 

T.Hood 



s-> 





Book Fourth 
CCXXXVI 

ROSABELLE 

O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay ! 
No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay 
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, 
And, gentle lady, deign to stay ! 

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

* The blackening wave is edged with white ; 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; 
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 

' Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round lady gay ; 

Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch j 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day? ' 

' 'T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball. 

But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

' 'T is not because the ring they ride. 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide 
If 't is not fiU'd by Rosabelle. ' 







: The Golden Treantiy 

— O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A -wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

'T was broader than the watch-fire's light. 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 

'T was seen from Dryden's groves of oak. 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthomden. 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheath'd in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire within, around, 
Deep sacristy and altar's pale ; 

Shone eveiy pillar foliage-bound. 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's msifi. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high. 

Blazed eveiy rose-carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold, 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 




And each Saint Clair was buried there 
With candle, with book, and with knell i 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

Sir W. Scott 



;^-- 




^:;fc^?^ 



t 



Book Fourth 



28.^, 



ON AN INFANT D YING AS SOON AS BORN 



I SAW where in the shroud did lurk 
A curious frame of Nature's work ; 
A flow'ret crushed in the bud 
A nameless piece of Babyhood 
Was in her cradle-coffin lying ; 
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying : 
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb 
For darker closets of the tomb ! 
She did but ope an eye, and put 
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 
For the long dark : ne'er more to see 
Through glasses of mortality. 
Riddle of destiny, who can show 
What thy short visit meant, or know 
What thy errand here below ? 
Shall we say, that Nature blind 
Check'd her hand, and changed her mind 
Just when she had exactly wrought 
A finish'd pattern without fault ? 
Could she flag, or -could she tire, 
Or lack'd she the Promethean fire 
(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) 
That should thy little limbs have quicken'dj 
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure 
Life of health, and days mature : 
Woman's self in miniature ! 
Limbs so fair, they might supply 
(Themselves now but cold imagery) 
The sculptor to make Beauty by. 
Or did the stem-eyed Fate descry 



M 









284 



The Golden Treasury 



That babe or mother, one must die ; 

So in mercy left the stock 

And cut the brancli ; to save the shock 

Of young years widow'd, and the pain 

When Single State comes back again 

To the lone man who, reft of wife, 

Thenceforward drags a maimed life ? 

The economy of Heaven is dark, 

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark 

Why human buds, like this, should fall 

More brief than fly ephemeral 

That has his day ; while shrivell'd crones 

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones ; 

And crabbed use the conscience sears 

In sinners of an hundred years. 

— Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, 

Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss : 

Rites, which custom does impose, 

Silver bells, and baby clothes ; 

Coral redder than those lips 

Which pale death did late eclipse ; 

Music framed for infants' glee. 

Whistle never tuned for thee ; 

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them. 

Loving hearts were they which gave them. 

Let not one be missing ; nurse. 

See them laid upon tlie hearse 

Of infant slain by doom perverse. 

Why should kings and nobles have 

Pictured trophies to their grave, 

And we, churls, to thee deny 

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie — - 

A more harmless vanity ? 

C. Lamb 







Book Fourt 



CCXXXVIII 



28s 




THE AFFLICTION' OF MARGARET 

WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ! 

find me, prosperous or undone ! 
Or if the grave be now thy bed, 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That I may rest ; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 

Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child — 
To have despair'd, have hoped, believecl. 
And be for evermore beguiled 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 

1 catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this ? 

He was among the prime in worth, 
An object beauteous to behold ; 
Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
If things ensued that wanted grace. 
As hath been said, they were not base ; 
And never blush was on my face. 

Ah ! little doth the young one dream. 
When full of play and childish cares. 
What power is in his wildest scream 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess ; 
Years to a mother bring distress ; 
But do not make her love the less. 




I r 



;r 




pft^ 



'mm 




286 77;t? Golden Treasury 

Neglect me ! no, I sufifer'd long 
From that ill thought : and being blind 
Said ' Pride shall heljD me in my wrong ; 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ever breathed : ' and that is true ; 
I 've wet my path with tears like dew, 
Weeping for him when no one knew. 

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honour and of gain, 

! do not dread thy mother's door, 
Think not of me with grief and pain : 

1 now can see with better eyes ; 
And worldly grandeur I despise 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 

Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings 
And'blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan 
Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men ; 
Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den ; 
Or hast been summon'd to the deep 
Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep 
An incommunicable sleep. 

I look for ghosts : but none will force 
Their way to me ; 't is falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 





Book Fourth 

For surely then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night 
With love and longings infinite. 

My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pass ; 
I question things, and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind ; 
And all the world appears unkind. 

Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief : 
If any chance to heave a sigh 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me, my Son, or send 
Some tidings that my woes may end ! 
I have no other earthly friend. 

W. Wordsworth 



HUNTING SONG 

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, 
On the mountain dawns the day ; 
All the jolly chase is here 
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear ; 
Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. 
Merrily merrily mingle they, 
' Waken, lords and ladies gay. ' 



287 





The Golden Treasury 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming. 

And foresters have busy been 

To track the buck in thicket green ; 

Now we come to chant our lay 

' Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the greenwood haste away ; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'dj 
You shall see him brought to bay ; 
Waken, lords and ladies gay. 

Louder, louder chant the lay 
Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
Run a course as well as we ; 
Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk. 
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk ; 
Think of this, and rise with day, 
Gentle lords and ladies gay ! 

Sir W. Scott 




s>- 



Booi Fourth 



28a 




CCXL 
TO THE SKYLARK 

ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares aoound 
. Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 

Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 

- — 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to suig 

All independent of the leafy Spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine. 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, mth instinct more divine ; 
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 
W. Wordsworth 



CCXLI 

TO A SKYLARK 

' AIL to thee, blithe Spirit ! 
Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art, 
19 



H 





i^O 



The Golden Treasury 




Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou spnngest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun ' 

O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight : 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

A".l the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd, 



What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 





Book Foui'th 291 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not ; 

Like a high-bom maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the 
view : 

Like a rose embower'd 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflower'd, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these hea^')'-winged 
thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awaken'd flowers. 

All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 






292 



The Golden Treasury 



I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal 

Or triumphal chaunt 
Match'd with thine, would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden vant. 



V./K 



What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ! 
What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 

What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain S 



With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream t 

We look before and after 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell qf saddest 
thought. 





■^c? 




Book Fourth ,293 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things bom 
Not to shed a tear, 
1 know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
f hy skill to poet were, thou scomer of the ground I 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
I'he world should listen then, as I am listening now ! 
P. B. Shelley 





THE GREEN LINNET 

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 
Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
In this sequester'd nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
lAnd flowers and birds once more to greet. 
My last year's friends together. 



One have I mark'd, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 




294 T^^ GoldeTi Treasury 

Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array 
Presiding Spirit here to-day 
Dost lead the revels of the May, 
And this is thy dominion. 

While birds, and butterllies, and flowers 
Make all one band of paramours. 
Thou, ranging up and dovi'n the bowers 
Art sole in thy employment ; 
A Life, a Presence like the air. 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any oneto pair, 
Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perch'd in ecstasies 
Yet seeming still to hover ; 
There, where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives — 
A brother of the dancing leaves ; 
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
Pours forth his song in gushes. 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mock'd and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign 
While fluttering in the bushes. 

W. Wordsworth 









Book Fourth- 



ccxLin 
TO THE CUCKOO 

O BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 
I hear thee and rejoice : 

Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear ; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listen'd to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still long'd for, never seen ! 




2^6 TJie Goldai Treasury 

And I can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place 
That is fit home for Thee ! 

W. Wordsworth 

CCXLIV 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
iVIy sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk; 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green. 

Dance, and Proven9al song, and sun-burnt mirth I 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 












Book Fourth 



297 



Sl^'■^ 




Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What tliou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Wliere youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her stariy Fays ; 
But here there is no light 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossj 
ways. 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree mid ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The munnurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 






%?f^;- 



29S The Golden Ti-easiiry 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into tlie air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

Thou ^^■ast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaijs the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

forlorn ! the veiy word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream. 
Up the hill-side ; and now 't is buried deep 
In the next valley -glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 

Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 

J. Keats 





-.^!g? 




,f^ 



Book Fourth 299 

CCXLV 

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
Sept. 3, 1802 

EARTH has not anything to show more fail': 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth like a garment wear 

The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie : 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky. 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

W. Wordr^orth 




OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 

I MET a traveller from an antique land 
Who said : Two vast and tnmkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand 
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown 
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamp'd on tliese lifeless things, 
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed ; 





lOM 




300 T/ie Golden Treasury 

And on the pedestal these words appear : 
* My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! ' 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

P. B. Shelley 

CCXLVII 

COMPOSED A TNEIDPA TH CASTLE, 

THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 

1803 

DEGENERATE Douglas ! O the unworthy lord ! 
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please 
And love of havoc (for with such disease 
Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word 

To level with the dust a noble horde, 

A brotlierhood of venerable trees. 

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these 

Beggar'd and outraged ! — Many hearts deplored 

The fate of those old trees ; and oft with pain 
The traveller at this day will stop and gaze 
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed : 
For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays. 
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 

iV. Wordsworth 




Book^ Fourth 



301 



CCXLVIII 

ADMONITIOlSr TO A TRAVELLER 

YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 
— The lovely cottage in the guardian nook 
Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear brook. 
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 

But covet not the abode — O do not sigh 
As many do, repining while they look ; 
Intruders who would tear from Nature's book 
This precious leaf with harsh impiety : 

- — Think what the home would be if it were thine, 
Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, 

door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 

The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
On which it should be touch'd would melt away ! 

W. Wordsworth 



CCXLIX 
TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNAIO 

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
And these gray rocks, this household lawn. 
These trees — a veil just half withdrawn. 



::s^^^^p^^^ 




^ 



302 T/ie Golden Treasury 

This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake, 
This little bay, a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy abode ; 
In truth together ye do seem 
Like something fashion'd in a dream ; 
Such forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
But O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart : 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
I neither know thee nor thy peers : 
And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 



[Hx X 




With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away ; 
For never saw I mien or face 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scatter'd like a random seed, 
Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
The embarrass'd look of shy distress. 
And maidenly shamefacedness : 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer : 
A face with gladness overspread. 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ; 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 




_,^»s«^> 





Book Fmcrth ■ 303 

Of thoughts that lie beyond tlie reach 
Of thy few words of English speech : 
A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 

happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 

Of the mid sea : and I would have 

Some claim upon thee, if I could. 

Though but of common neighbourhood. 

What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 

Thy elder brother I would be, 

Thy father, anything to thee. 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place ; 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
Then why should I be loth to stir ? 
I feel this place was made for her ; 
To give new pleasure like the past. 
Continued long as life shall last. 






^04 The Golden Treasury 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 

Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old 

As fair before me shall behold 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 

And Thee, the spirit of them all ! 

W. Wordsworth 



THE REAPER 

BEHOLD her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself ; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 
No sweeter voice was ever heard 
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird. 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago : 







Book Fourth 

Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day ? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
That has been, and may be again ! 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending ; 
I listen'd till I had my fill ; 
And as I mounted up the hill 
The music in my heart I bore 
Long after it was heard no more. 

W. Wordsworth 

CCLI 
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight 
appears. 
Hangs a Thrash that sings loud, it has sung for three 

years : 
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 

'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her ! 

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midstof the dale 
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's. 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 





The Golden Treasury 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
The mist and the river, the liill and the sliade ; 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes ! 
W. Wordsworth 



TO A LADY, IVITH A GUITAR 

ARIEL to Miranda : — Take 
This slave of music, for the sake 
Of him, who is the slave of thee ; 
And teach it all the harmony 
In which thou canst, and only thou. 
Make the delighted spirit glow, 
Till joy denies itself again, 
And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 
For by permission and command 
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
Of more than ever can be spoken ; 
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 
From life to life must still pursue 
Your happiness, for thus alone 
Can Ariel ever find his own ; 
From Prospero's enchanted cell, 
As the mighty verses tell, 
To the throne of Naples he 
Lit you o'er the trackless sea. 
Flitting on, your prow before, 
Like a living meteor. 
When you die, the silent Moon 
In her interlunar swoon 
Is not sadder in her cell 



^si 




l^^'\Y' 




Book Fourth 

Than deserted Ariel ; 

When you Uve again on earth, 

Like an unseen Star of birth 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity : 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has track'd your steps and served your will. 

Now in humbler, happier lot, 

This is all remember'd not ; 

And now, alas ! the poor sprite is 

Imprison'd for some fault of his 

In a body like a grave — 

From you he only dares to crave 

For his service and his sorrow 

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this viol wrought 

To echo all harmonious thought, 

Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 

The woods were in their winter sleep, 

Rock'd in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine ; 

And dreaming, some of autumn past. 

And some of spring approaching fast, 

And some of April buds und showers. 

And some of songs in July bowers. 

And all of love ; and so this tree — 

O that such our death may be ! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain. 

To live in happier form again : 

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, 

The artist wrought this loved Guitar ; 



N.^fes 




308 Tlie Golden Treasury 

And taught it justly to reply 
To all who question skilfully 
In language gentle as thine own ; 
Whispering in enamour'd tone 
Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 
And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 

— For it had learnt all harmonies 
Of the plains and of the skies, 
Of the forests and the mountains, 
And the many -voiced fountains ; 
The clearest echoes of the hills, 
The softest notes of falling rills. 
The melodies of birds and bees. 
The murmuring of summer seas. 

And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 
And airs of evening ; and it knew 
That seldom-heard mysterious sound 
Which, driven on its diurnal round, 
As it floats through boundless day, 
Our world enkindles on its way : 

— AH this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The spirit that inhabits it ; 

It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions ; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day. 
But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill. 
It keeps its highest holiest tone 
For one beloved Friend alone. 

P. B. Shelley 






.*i. 



m 



pj 



fe*' 





N,tK 



Book Fourth 309 

CCLIII 

THE DAFFODILS 

IWANDER'D lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host of golden daffodils, 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretch'd in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The vi'aves beside them danced, but they 
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : — ■ 
A Poet could not but be gay ^ 

In such a jocund company ! 
I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought ; 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 

W. Wordsworth 



i^i. 



v^ 









310 Tie Golden Treasury 



TO THE DAISY 

WITH litttle here to do or see 
Of things that in the great world be^ 
Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 
Which love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees. 

Thoughts of thy raising ; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humour of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court. 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy. 




Book Fourth 



and instantly 



W- 



That thought comes next 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, and behold ! 
A silver shield with boss of gold 
That spreads itself, some fairy t>old 

In fight to cover. 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star, 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;— 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last 

When all my reveries are past 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 

Sweet silent Creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 

W. Wordsworth 



CCLV 
ODE TO AUTUMN 

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves ru;n , 




:^^^^^^ 



312 



T!ie Golden Treasury 



To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees. 
And fill all fniit with ripeness to the core ; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more 
And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
Until they think warm days will never cease ; 
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen Thee oft amid (hy store? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granaiy floor. 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed "vWth the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they! 

Think not of them, — thou hast thy music too, 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft 

The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft. 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

y. Keats 





Book Fourth 



313 



ODE TO WINTER 
(jennany^ Deceviber^ 1 800, 

WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun 
His heavenly race began to run. 
Round the earth and ocean blue 
His children four the Seasons flew : — 

First, in green apparel dancing, 
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace ; 

Rosy Summer, next advancing 
Rush'd into her sire's embrace — 
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to his smiles, 
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep 

Or India's citron-cover'd isles. 
More remote, and buxom-brown. 

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crovra, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 



But howling Winter fled afar 
To hills that prop the polar star ; 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
With barren darkness at his side 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 

Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
Round the hall where Runic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale — 
Save when adown the ravaged globe 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe 

And trampling on her faded form ; 




314 The Golden 7'reasury 

Till light's returning Lord assume 

The shaft that drives him to his northern field. 
Of power to pierce his raven plume 

And crystal-cover'd shield. 



Or sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye 
Implores thy dreadful deity — 
Archangel ! Power of desolation ! 

Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath mortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart : 
Then, sullen Winter ! hear my prayer. 
And gently nde the ruin'd year ; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare 
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear : 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend. 
And gently on the orphan head 

Of Innocence descend. 

Bnt chiefly spare, O king of clouds ' 
The sailor on his airy shrouds, 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep 
And spectres walk along the deep. 
Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour' on yonder tented shores. 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes. 

Or the dark -brown Danube roars. 
O winds of Winter ! list ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan ? 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air. 

At shrieks and thunders louder than your ownl 







Book Fourth 

Alas ! e'en your unhallow'd breath 
May spare the victim fallen low ; 

But Man will ask no truce to death, 
No bounds to human woe. 

T. Campbell 



YARROW UNVISITED 



FROM Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravell'd, 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelFd ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my ' winsome Marrow,' 
' Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside. 
And see the Braes of Yarrow. ' 

' Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town. 

Who have been buying, selling. 

Go back to Yarrow, 't is their ovra, 

Each maiden to her dwelling ! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow, 

But \»e mil downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

' There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed 

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 

There 's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land 

Made blythe with plough and harrow : 



re^^'^: ->'-^: 



316 The Golden Treasury 

Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

What 's Yarrow but a river bare 

That glides tlie dark hills under ? 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As wortliy of your wonder. ' 

— Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn 

My true-love sigh'd for sorrow, 

And look'd me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

' O green,' said I, ' are Yarrow's holms. 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path and open strath 
We 'II wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 

' Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There 's such a place as Yarrow. 

' Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown j 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our o\vn. 
Ah ! why should we undo it ? 







Book Fourth 

The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 
'T \vill be another Yarrow ! 

' If care with freezing years should come 

And wandering seem but folly, — 

Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'T will soothe us in our sorrow 

That earth has something yet to show. 

The bonny Holms of Yarrow ! ' 

W. Wordsworth 

CCLVIII 

YARROW VISITED 
September, 1814 

AND is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 
Of which my fancy cherish'd, 
So faithfully, a waking dream. 
An image that hath perish'd ? 
O that some minstrel's harp were near 
To utter notes of gladness 
And chase this silence from the air. 
That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontroll'd meanderings ; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings* 

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted ; 








The Golden Treasury 

For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection ; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding ; 

And haply from this crystal pool. 

Now peaceful as the morning, 

The water-Wraith ascended thrice. 

And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove. 

The leafy grove that covers : 

And pity sanctifies the verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow. 

The unconquerable strength of love ; 

Bear \vitness, rueful Yarrow ! 

But tirou that didst appear so fair 
To fond imagination 
Dost rival in the light of day 
Her delicate creation : 





Book Fom-th 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
A softness still and holy : 
The grace of forest charms decay'd, 
And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated Nature ; 

And rising from those lofty groves 

Behold a ruin hoaiy, 

The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, 

Renown'd in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in. 

For manhood to enjoy his strength, 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of studious ease and generous cares, 

And every chaste affection ! 

How sweet on this autumnal day 
The wild-wood fruits to gather. 
And on my true-love's forehead plant 
A crest of blooming heather ! 
And what if I enwreathed my own? 
'T were no offence to reason ; 
The sober hills thus deck their brovrs 
To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone 
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 



3>9 



> 



) The Golden Treasury 

A ray of Fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Tliy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe 

Accordant to the measure. 

The vapours linger round the heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad thought ! which I would banish. 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image. Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me, to heighten joy 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 

W. Wordsworth 



S®^ 




THE INVITATION' 

BEST and Brightest, come away. 
Fairer far than this fair day, 
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 
Comes to bid a SAveet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
Through the winter wandering, 
Found, it seems, the halcyon mom 
To hoar February bom ; 
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth. 
It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 
And bade the frozen streams be free. 



w 




-'^^Sg. 



2^. 



J^ 




:^^^. 







Booi Fourth 

And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains. 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strew'd flowers upon the barren way. 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear, 

Away, away, from men and towns. 
To the wild wood and the downs — ■ 
To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another's mind. 
While the touch of Nature's art 
Harmonizes heart to heart 

Radiant Sister of the Day 
Awake ! arise ! and come away 'i 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves. 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun. 
Round stems that never kiss the sun, 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sand-hills of the sea, 
Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets. 
And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
Crown the pale year weak and new| 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dim and blind. 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous . 




322 The Golden Treasury 

Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth aud ocean meet. 
And all things seem only one 
In the universal Sun. 

P. B. Shelley 

CCLX 

THE RECOLLECTION 

NOW the last day of many days 
All beautiful and bright as thou, 
The loveliest and the last, is dead, 
Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 
Up, do thy wonted work ! come, trace 
The epitaph of gloiy fled, 
For now the Earth has changed its face. 
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. 

We wander'd to the Pine Forest 

That skirts the Ocean's foam ; 
The lightest wind was in its nest, 

The tempest in its home. 
The whispering waves were half asleep. 

The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep 

The smile of Heaven lay ; 
It seem'd as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies. 
Which scatter'd from above the sun 

A light of Paradise ! 

We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste. 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced, — 







Book Fourth 

And soothed by every azure breath 

That under heaven is blown 
To harmonies and hues beneath. 

As tender as its own : 
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep , 

Like green waves on the sea. 
As still as in the silent deep 

The ocean-woods may be. 

How calm it was ! — the silence there 

By such a chain was bound, 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness ; 

The breath of peace we drevir 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 
There seem'd from the remotest seat 

Of the wide mountain waste 
To the soft flower beneatli our feet 

A magic circle traced, 
A spirit interfused around, 

A thrilling silent life ; 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife ; — ■ 
And still I felt the centre of 

The magic circle there 
Was one fair Forni that fill'd mth love 

The lifeless atmosphere. 

We paused beside the pools that lie 

Under the forest bough ; 
Each seem'd as 't were a little sky 

Gulf 'd in a world below ; 



323 





324 The Golden Treasury 

A firmament of purple light 

Which in the dark earth lay, 
More boundless than the depth of night 

And purer than the day — 
In which the lovely forests grew 

As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighbouring \s.vm.. 

And through the dark green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views which in our world above 

Can never well be seen 
Were imaged by the water's love 

Of that fair forest green : 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an Elysian glow. 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A softer day below. 

Like one beloved, the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast 
Its eveiy leaf and lineament 

With more than truth exprest ; 
Until an envious wind crept by, 

Like an unwelcome thought 
Which from the mind's too faithful eye 

Blots one dear image out. 
• — Though Thou art ever fair and kind, 

The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 

Than calm in waters seen ! 

P. B. Shelley 







Book Fourth 

CCLXI 
BY THE SEA 

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
The holy time is quiet as a nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sim 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 
Listen ! the mighty being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, 
If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought. 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year. 
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 

W. Wordsworth 

CCLXII 
TO THE EVENING STAR 

STAR that bringest home the bee. 
And sett'st the weary labourer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 't is Thou 

That send'st it from above. 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 
Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies, 
Whilst the landscape's odours rise. 







326 The Golden Treasu>y 

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 
And songs when toil is done, 

From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 
Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews. 
Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art. 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 

T. Campbell 



DATUR HORA QUIETI 

THE sun upon the lake is low, 
The wild birds hush their song. 
The hills have evening's deepest glow. 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Now all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide. 

In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 

The noble dame on turret high. 

Who waits her gallant knight. 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armour bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow 

The level ray to shade. 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 







Book. Fourth, . "1 

Now to their mates the wild swans row. 

By day they swam apart, 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long ! 

Sir IV. Scott 



TO THE MOON 

ART thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth 
Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy? 

R B. Shelley 



A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her Love 
Upon a wintiy bough ; 
The frozen wind crept on above. 
The freezing stream below. 

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, 

No flower upon the ground. 
And little motion in the air 

Except tlie mill-wheel's sound. 

P. B. Shelley 







32.8 The Golden Treasury 

CCLXVI 

TO SLEEP 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 

I 've thought of all by turns, and still I lie 
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay. 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 

W. Wordsworth 

CCLXVII 

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 

OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had 
lower'd. 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw ; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 




Book Fourth 329 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track : 

'T was Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never ta 
part; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

'Stay — stay with us! — rest! — thou art weary and 
worn I ' — 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — 
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn. 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
T. Campbell 



CCLXVIII 

A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWl^ 



IDREAM'D that as I wander'd by the way 
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 
And gentle odours led my steps astray, 

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream. 
But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream. 







There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 

Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the eartli. 
The constellated flower that never sets ; 

Fanit ox -lips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 






And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, 

Gieen cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May, 

And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day ; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; 

And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, 

Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with 
white. 
And starry river-buds among the sedge. 

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 

With moonlight beams of their own watery light ; 
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 

That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 

Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 

I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come 

That I might there present it — O ! to Whom? 

P. B. Shelley 





MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
To pace the ground, if path there be or none, 
While a fair region round the Traveller lies- 
Which he forbears again to look upon ; 

Pleased ratlier with some soft ideal scene " 
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
Of meditation, slipping in between 
The beauty coming and the beauty gone^ 

— If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse ; 
With Thought and Love companions of our way — ■ 

Wh'ate'ef the senses take or may refuse, — 
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 

; W. Wordsworth 



THE REALM OF FANCY 

EVER let the Fancy roam ! ; , 
Pleasure never is at home : 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 
Then let winged Fancy Avander 
Through the thought still spread beyond her 
Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 



I.JlHiJLltiu.;|l, jiiniii»u.ii>-gi 





332 The Golden Treasury 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as doe= its blossoming : 

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too 

Blushing through the mist and dew 

Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled, 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

— Sit thee there, and send abroad 

With a mind self-overawed 

Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her 1 

She has vassals to attend her ; 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 

She will bring thee, all together. 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth ; 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup. 

And thou shalt quaff it ; — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear ; 

Rustle of the reaped com ; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn : 






Book Fourth 

And in the same moment — hark ! 
'T is the early April lark, 
Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
Foraging for sticks and straw. 
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
The daisy and the marigold ; 
White-plumed lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf, and every flowei 
Pearled with the self-same shower. 
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winter-thin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see 
Hatching in the hawthoni-tree. 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering 
While the autumn breezes sing. 



333 




O sweet Fancy ! let her loose , 
Everything is spoilt by use ; 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Where 's the eye, however blue, 
Doth not weary ? Where 's the face 
One would meet in every place ! 
Where 's the voice, however soft. 




3 



One would hear so very oft? 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 

Let then winged Fancy find 

Thee a mistress to thy mind : 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Slipt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet 

While she held the goblet sweet. 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 

Quickly break her prison-string. 

And such joys as these she '11 bring : 

— Let the winged Fancy roam ! 

Pleasure never is at home. 

7. Keats 

CCLXXI 

HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NA TURE 

LIFE of Life ! Thy lips enkindle 
With their love the breath betweeft them ; 
And thy smiles before they dwindle 

Make the cold air fire ; then screen them 
In those locks, where whoso gazes 
Faints, entangled in their mazes. 

Child of Light ! Thy limbs are burning 

Through the veil which seems to hide them. 




ri^ J^:. 



^5C= 



Book Fourth 

As the radiant lines of morning 

Through thin clouds, ere they divide them; 
And this atmosphere divinest 
Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest 

Fair are others : none beholds Thee ; 

But thy voice sounds low and tender 
Like the fairest, for it folds thee 

From the sight, that liquid splendour ; 
And all feel, yet see thee never, — 
As I feel now, lost for ever ! 

Lamp of Earth ! where'er thou movest, 
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness. 

And the souls of whom thou lovest 
Walk upon the winds mth lightness 

Till they fail, as I am failing, 

Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 

P. B. Shelley 

-, - - CCLXXII 

WRITTEN IN EARL V SPRING - 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes 
While in a grove I sat reclined. 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What Man has made of Man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower. 
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ; 





33^ TJiC Golden Treasitry 

And 't is my faith tliat every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd. 
Their thouglits I cannot measure — 
But the least motion wliich they made 
It seem'd a tlirill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan 
To catch the breezy air ; 
And I must think, do all I can. 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent. 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What Man has made of Man ? 

W. Wordsworth 

CCLXXIII 

RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATUR& 

WHEN Ruth was left half desolate 
Her father took another mate ; 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill. 
In thoughtless freedom bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw, 
And music from that pipe could draw 
Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
Had built a bower upon the green. 
As if she from her birth had been 
An infant of the woods. 



& 




^_ _j^3^ 




'-Tl>WJ*lfK'" 




Booi Fourth 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

She seem'd to live ; her thoughts her own ; 

Herself her own delight : 

Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay. 

She pass'd her time ; and in this way 

Grew up to woman's height. 

There came a youth from Georgia's shore— 

A military casque he wore 

With splendid feathers drest ; 

He brought them from the Cherokees j 

The feathers nodded in the breeze 

And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung I 
But no ! he spake the English tongue 
And bore a soldier's name ; 
And, when America was free 
From battle and from jeopardy, 
He 'cross the ocean came. 

With hues of genius on his cheek, 
In finest tones the youth could speak ; 
— While he was yet a boy 
The moon, the glory of the sun, 
And streams that murmur as they run 
Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely youth ! I guess 

The panther in the mldemess 

Was not so fair as he ; 

And when he chose to sport and play. 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 



337 





Ri^?- 



338 



The Golden Trirasmy 



'Wxy<'' 



Among the Indians he had fought , 
And with him many tales he brought 
■ Of jDleasure and of fear ; 
Such tales as, told to any maid 
By such a youth, in the' green shade, 
Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls, a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 

Their pleasant Indian town. 

To gather strawberries all day long ; 

Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly change 
Their -blossoms, through a boundless ranga 
Of intermingling hues ; 
With budding, fading, faded flowers. 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 

He told ofthe Magnolia, spread : . . 
High as a. cloud, high over head ! 
The cypress and her spire ; 
— Of flowers, that with one scarlet gleam 
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
To set the hills on fire. 



The youth of green savannahs spake, 
And many an endless, endless lake 
With all its fairy crowds 
Of islands, that together lie 
As quietly as spots of sky 
Among the evening clouds. 







Book Fourth 

And then lie said, ' How sweet it were 

A fisher or a hunter tlrere, 

In sunshine or in shade 

To wander with an easy mind, 

And build a household fire, and find 

A home in every glade ! ; 

What days and what bright years ! Ah me t 

Our life were life indeed, with Thee 

So pass'd in quiet bliss ; 

And all the while,' said he, ' to know 

That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this ! ' 

And then he sometimes inter^vove 
Fond thoughts about a father's love, 
' For there, ' said he, ' are spun 
Around the heart such tender ties. 
That our own children to our eyes 
Are dearer than the sun. 

Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with mC 

My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Our shed at night to rear ; 

Or nm, my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side. 

And drive the flying deer ! 

Beloved Ruth ! ' — No more he said. 
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
A solitary tear : 

She thought again — and did agree 
With him to sail across the sea. 
And drive the flying deer. 





-K 



M 



340 T/n' Golden Treasury 

' And now, as fitting is and right, 
We in the churcli our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife.' 
Even so they did ; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Thicugh dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 
That, on those lonesome floods 
And green savannahs, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the vrild woods. 

But, as you have before been told, 
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold. 
And -with his dancing crest 
So beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roam'd about with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 

The wii.d, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of"a tropic sky 

Might well be dangerous food 

For him, a youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of heaven. 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Irregular in sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 







;&c5s3^ 



Book Foitrik 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, — 
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; ' 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings, which tliey sent 
Into those favour'd bowers. 

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent : 
For passions link'd to forms so fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw 
With men to whom no better law 
Nor better life was known ; 
Deliberately and undeceived 
Those wild men's vices he received. 
And gave them back his own. 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impair'd, and he became 
The slave of low desires : 
A man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feign'd delight 
Had woo'd the maiden, day and night. 
Had loved her, niglit and morn : 
What could he less than love a maid 
Whose heart with so much nature play'tJ — ■ 
So kind and so forlorn ? 





■^ 



342 The Golden Treasury 

Sometimes most earnestly he said, 

' O Ruth ! 1 have been worse than dead ; 

False thoughts, thouglits bold and vain 

Encompass'd me on every side 

When I, in confidence and pride, 

Had cross'd tlie Atlantic main. 

Before me shone a glorious world 
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd 
To music suddenly : 
I look'd upon those hills and plains, 
And seem'd as if let loose from chains 
To live at liberty 1 

No more of this — for now, by thee, 
Dear Ruth ! more happily set free, 
With nobler zeal I bum ; 
My soul from darkness is released 
Like the whole sky %yhen to the east 
The morning doth return.' 

Full soon that better mind was gone ; 
No hope, no wish remain'd, not one. — 
They stirr'd him now no moi'e ; 
New objects did new pleasure give. 
And once again he wish'd to live 
As lawless as before. 

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared. 
They for the voyage were prepared, 
And went to the sea-shore : 
But, when they thither came, the youth 
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 







Book Fourth 

God help thee, Ruth I — Such pains she had 

That she in half a year was mad 

And in a prison housed ; 

And there exulting in her wrongs. 

Among the music of her songs 

She fearfully caroused. 

Vet sometimes milder hours she knew. 
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew. 
Nor pastimes of the May, 
— They all were mth her in her cell ; 
And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 



When Ruth three seasons thus had lain. 
There came a respite to her pain ; 
She from her prison fled ; 
But of the vagrant none took thought ; 
And where it liked her best she sought 
Her shelter and her bread. 

Among the fields she breathed again ; 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free ; 
And, coming to the banks of Tone, 
There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools. 

And airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves — • she loved them still. 

Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 

Which had been done to her. 





\ 




The Golden Ti'eamry 

A barn her Winter bed supplies ; 

But, till the warmth of Summer skies 

And Summer days is gone, 

(And all do in this tale agree,) 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
And Ruth will, long before her day. 
Be broken down and old. 
Sore aches she needs must have ! but les 
Of mind, than body's wretchedness. 
From damp, and rain, and cold. 

If she is prest by want of food 

She from her dwelling in the wood 

Repairs to a" road-side ; 

And there she begs at one steep place. 

Where up and down with easy pace 

The horsemen-travellers ride. 

That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
Or thrown away : but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers ; 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk. 
At evening in his homeward walk 
The Quantock woodman hears. 

I, too, have pass'd her on the hills 
Setting her little water-mills 
By spouts and fountains wild — 
Such small machinery as she turn'd 
Ere she had wept, ere she had moum'd, 
A young and happy child ! 




Book Fourth 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told. 
Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallow'd mould 
Thy corpse shall buried be ; 
For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
And all the congregation sing 
A Christian psalm for thee. 

W. Wordsworth 



345 



WRITTEN IN THE EUGANEAN HILLS, 
NORTH ITALY 

MANY a green isle needs must be 
In the deep wide sea of misery. 
Or the mariner, worn and wan, 
Never thus could voyage on 
Day and night, and night and day. 
Drifting on his dreai-y way. 
With the solid darkness black 
Closing round his vessel's track ; 
Whilst above, the sunless sky 
Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 
And behind the tempest fleet 
Hurries on with lightning feet, 
Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 
Till the ship has almost drank 
Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 
And sinks down, down, like that sleep 
When the dreamer seems to be 
Weltering through eternity ; 
And the dim low line before 
Of a dark and distant shore 
Still recedes, as ever still 
Longing with divided will. 




34^ The Golden Treasury 

But no power to seek or shun. 
He is ever drifted on 
O'er the unreposing wave, 
To the haven of the grave. 

Ay, many flowering islands lie 

In the waters of wide agony : 

To such a one this morn was led 

My bark, by soft winds piloted. 

— ^'Mid the mountains Euganean 

I stood listening to the paean 

With which tire legion'd rooks did hail 

The Sun's uprise majestical : 

Gathering round with wings all hoar. 

Through the dewy mist they soar 

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 

Bursts, and then, — as clouds of even 

Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie 

In the unfathomable sky, — 

So their plumes of purple grain 

Starr'd with drops of golden rain 

Gleam above the sunlight woods. 

As in silent multitudes 

On the morning's fitful gale 

Through the broken mist they sail ; 

And the vapours cloven and gleaming 

Follow down the dark steep streaming. 

Till all is bright, and clear, and still 

Round the solitaiy hill. 

Beneath is spread like a green sea 
The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
Bounded by the vaporous air, 
Islanded by cities fair ; 






Book Fourth 

Underneath day's azure eyes, 
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, — 
A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
Amphitrite's destined halls, 
Which her hoary sire now paves 
With his blue and beaming waves- 
Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 
Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined 
On the level quivering line 
Of the waters crystalline j 
And before that chasm of light 
As within a furnace bright, 
Column, tower, and dome, and spirey 
Shine like obelisks of fire, 
Pointing with inconstant motion 
From the altar of dark ocean 
To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
As the flames of sacrifice 
From the marble shrines did rise 
As to pierce the dome of gold 
AX^here Apollo spoke of old. 

Sun-girt City ! thou hast been 
Ocean's child, and then his queen : 
Now is come a darker day. 
And thou soon must be his prey, 
If the power that raised thee hero 
Hallow so thy watery bier. 
A less drear ruin then than now 
With thy conquest-branded brow 
Stooping to the slave of slaves 
From thy throne among the waves, 
Wilt thou be, — when the sea-mew 
Flies, as once before it flew. 






34S The Golden Treasuiy 

O'er thine isles depopulate, 
And all is in its ancient state, 
Save where many a palace-gate 
With green sea-flowers overgrown 
Like a rock of ocean's own, 
Topples o'er the abandon'd sea 
As the tides change sullenly. 
The fisher on his watery way 
Wandering at the close of day, 
Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
Till he pass the gloomy shore, 
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
Bursting o'er the starlight deep, 
Lead a rapid masque of death 
O'er the waters of his path. 

Noon descends around me now : 
'T is the noon of autumn's glow. 
When a soft and purple mist 
Like a vaporous amethyst. 
Or an air-dissolved star 
Mingling light and fragrance, far 
From the curved horizon's bound 
To the point of heaven's profound. 
Fills the overflowing sky ; 
And the plains that silent lie 
Underneath ; the leaves unsodden 
Where the infant frost has trodden 
With his morning-winged feet 
Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
And the red and golden vines 
Piercing with their trellised lines 
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
The dun and bladed grass no less, 






Book Foitrtk 

Pointing from this hoary towey 

In the windless air ; the flower 

GUmmering at my feet ; tlie line 

Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine 

In the south dimly islanded ; 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 

High between the clouds and sun ; 

And of living things each one ; 

And my spirit, which so long 

Darlcen'd this swift stream of song, — 

Interpenetrated lie 

By the glory of the sky ; 

Be it love, light, harmony, 

Odour, or the soul of all 

Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 

Or the mind whicli feeds this verse 

Peopling the lone universe. 

Noon descends, and after noon 

Autumn's evening meets me soon. 

Leading the infantine moon 

And that one star, which to her 

Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 

From the sunset's radiant springs ; 

And the soft dreams of the mom 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To that silent isle, which lies 

'Mid remember'd agonies. 

The frail bark of this lone being). 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing. 

And its ancient pilot. Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 



349 




.^^^r^r^ 



ff^ 




Till Golden Trensury 

Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of Ufe and agony : 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulf : even now, perhaps, 

On some rock the wild wave wraps, 

With folding winds they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove, 

Where for me, and those I love, 

May a windless bower be built, 

Far from passion, pain, and guilt. 

In a dell 'mid lawny hills 

Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 

And soft sunshine, and the sound 

Of old forests echoing round. 

And the light and smell divine 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine. 

— We may live so happy there. 

That the spirits of the air 

Envying us, may even entice 

To our healing paradise 

The polluting multitude ; 

But their rage would be subdued 

By that clime divine and calm, 

And the winds whose wings rain balm 

On the uplifted soul, and leaves 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 

While each breathless interval 

In their whisperings musical 

The inspired soul supplies 

With its own deep melodies ; 

And the Love which heals all strife 

Circling, like the breath of life. 

AH things in that sweet abode 




With its own mild brotherhood. 
They, not it, would change ; and soon 
Every sprite beneath the moon 
Would repent its envy vain, 
And the Earth grow young again ! 

P. B. Shelley 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

OWILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 
being. 
Thou, from whose unseen presence tlie leaves dead 
Ai'e driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou 
AVho chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill : 
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; 
Destroyer and Preserver ; Hear, O hear ! 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 
Angels of rain and lightning ; there are spread 
On the hlue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 



/vc 




tX^ 



352 



The Golden Treasury 



The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to whicli this closing night 

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : O hear ! 



tv^5^ 



W. 



Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay 

LuU'd by the coil of his ciystalline streams 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 

Quivering ^vithin the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 

And tremble and desijoil themselves : O hear ! 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly vrith thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 

Than Thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 

I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 

As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 

Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need* 

lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 

1 fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 




Book Fourth 353 

A heaNy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 




Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth ; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind !f 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? 

P. B. Shelley 

CCLXXVT 

NATURE AND THE POET 

Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm., 
fainted by Sir George Beaumont 

I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there ; 
It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 
23 



foC:- 






How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep, 
No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleani 
The light that never was on sea or land. 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such picture would I at that time have made ; 
And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 

So once it would have been, — 't is so no more ; 
I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 





Then, 



Book Fourth 355 

Friend ! who would have been th9 




Beaumont, 

friend 
If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

O, 't is a passionate work ! — yet wise and well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
That hulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

I love to see the look with which it braves 

— Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time — ■ 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone. 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known. 
Is to be pitied ; for 't is surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here : — 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 

W. Wordsworth 



cCLXXVir 
THE POETS DREAM 

ON a Poet's lips I slept 
Dreaming like a love-adept 
In the sound his breathing kept j 





t--ih 



l^-x 



\>^, 



356 T//e Golden Treasury 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy -bloom, 

Nor heed nor see what things they be — 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living Man, 

Nurslings of Immortality ! 

P. B. Shelley 



THE World is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon. 
The winds that will be howling at all hours 
And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 

It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

W. WordywortX 








Book Fourth 357 



WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE 

TAX rot the royal Saint with vain expense, 
With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 
(Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense 

And glorious work of fine intelligence ! 

— Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more : — 

So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells 
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 

Lingering and wandering on as loth to die — 
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
That they were bom for immortality. 

W. Wordsworth 



YOUTH AND AGE 

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee- 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young ? — Ah, woful When ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands. 



•j^rar^ 





Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful Ere, 
Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet 
T is known that Thou and I were one, 

1 '11 think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 
I see these locks in silveiy slips. 
This drooping gait, this alter'd size : 
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but Thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are housemates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 




Book Fourth 359 

Where no hope is, Hfe 's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve 

When we are old : 
— That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismist. 
Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

S. T. Coleridge 

CCLXXXI 

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

WE walk'd along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun ; 
And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, 
' The will of God be done ! ' 



L^>^ 



A village schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering gray ; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass 
And by the steaming rills 
We travell'd merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 



' Our work,' said I, ' was well begim ; 
Then, from thy breast what thought. 
Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
So sad a sigh has brought ? ' 





360 The Golden Treasury 

A second time did Matthew stop ; 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
To me he made reply : 

' Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this, which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

' And just above yon slope of corn 

Such colours, and no other, 

Were in the sky that April mom 

Of this the very brother. ' 

' With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave. 
And coming to the church, stopp'd short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

' Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale ; 
And then she sang : — she would have beoQ 
A very nightingale. 

' Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet I loved her more — 
For so it seem'd — than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

' And turning from her grave, I met 
Beside the church-yard yew 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 







Book Fourth 361 

' A "basket on her head she bare : 
Her brow was smooth and white : 
To see a child so veiy fair. 
It was a pure delight ! 

' No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripp'd with foot so free ; 
She seem'd as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea. 

' There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine ; 
I look'd at her, and look'd again : 
And did not wish her mine ! ' 

— Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
Methinks I see him stand 
As at that moment, with a bough 
Of wilding in his hand. 

W. Wordsworth 

CCLXXXII 

THE FOUNTAIN 
A Conversation 

WE talk'd with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 



We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke 
And gurgled at our feet. 




The Golden Treasury 

' Now, Matthew ! ' said I, ' let us match 
This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border song, or catch 
That suits a summer's noon. 

' Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade 
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made ! ' 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
The spring beneath the tree ; 
And thus the dear old man replied, 
The gray-hair'd man of glee : 



' No check, no stay, this Streamlet feais, 
How merrily it goes ! 
'T will murmur on a thousand years 
And flow as now it flows. 

' And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

' My eyes are dim with childish tears. 
My heart is idly stirr'd, 
For the same sound is in my ears 
Which in those days I heard. 

' Thus fares it still in our decay : 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what Age takes away. 
Than what it leaves behind. 




■fv; 



Book Fourth 

' The blackbird amid leafy trees — 
The lark above the hill 
Let loose their carols when they please. 
Are quiet when they will. 

' With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free : 



363 



' But we are press'd by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more. 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

' If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindred laid in earth, 
The household hearts that were his own, 
It is the man of mirth. 

' My days, my friend, are almost gone. 
My life has been approved. 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved. ' 

' Now both himself and me he viTongs, 
The man who thus complains ! 
,1 live and sing my idle songs 
Upon these happy plains : 

' And Matthew, for thy children dead 
I '11 be a son to thee ! ' 
At tills he grasp'd my hand and said, 
' Alas ! that cannot be. ' 





The Golden Treasury 

We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
And through tlie wood we went ; 

And ere we came to Leonard's Rock 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock, 
And the bewilder'd chimes. 

W. Wordsworth 



CCLXXXIII 

THE RIVER OF LIFE 

THE more we live, more brief appear 
Our life's succeeding stages : 
A day to childhood seems a year, 
And years like passing ages. 



'I^L 



The gladsome current of our youth, 

Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals lingering like a river smooth 

Along its grassy borders. 

But as the care-worn cheek grows wan. 
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker. 

Ye Stars, that measure life to man, 
Why seem your courses quicker ? 



When joys have lost their bloom and breath 

And life itself is vapid. 
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid ? 





Book Fourth 365 

It may be strange — yet who would change 

Time's course to slower speeding, 
When one by one our friends have gone 

And left our bosoms bleeding ? 

Heaven gives our years of fading strength 

Indemnifying fleetness ; 
And those of youth, a seeming length, 

Proportion'd to their sweetness. 

T. Campbell 



CCLXXXIV 

THE HUMAN SEASONS 

FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year ; 
There are four seasons in the mind of Man : 
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 

He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his vidngs 
He furleth close ; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook : — 

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature. 
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 

J. Keats 






O WORLD ! O Life ! O Time! 
On wliose last steps I climb, 
Trembling at that where I had stood before ; 
When will return the glory of your prime ? 
No more — O never more ! 

Out of the day and night , 
A joy has taken flight : 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with deligb'' 
No more — O never more ! 



P. B. Shelley 



MY heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began, 
So is it now I am a man. 
So be it when I shall grow old 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man : 
And I could vrish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

W. Wordsworth 




m^ 



Book Fourth 



CCLXXXVII 



ODE 



367 



ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and 
stream. 
The earth, and every common sight 
To me did seem 
Apparell'd in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it has been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more 1 

The rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the rose ; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, — 




:'m 



368 



T/i^ Golden Treasury 



No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou child of joy 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd boy ! 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it alL 

evil day ! if I were sullen' 
While Earth herself is adorning 

This sweet May morning ; 
And the children are pulling 

On every side 
In a thousand valleys far and vride 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm. 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there 's a tree, of many, one, 

A single field which I have look'd upon. 

Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 

Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 

Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 





"" Heaven lies aboiii us in our infancy,'''' — Page 369. 







Book Fourth 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting 

And Cometh from afar ; 
Not in entire forgetfulness 
And not in utter nakedness 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The youth, who daily farther from tlie east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a motlier's mind 

And no unworthy aim. 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
24 



369 



j-'iirs?'?^^*"- 





The Golden Treasury 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his ' humorous stage ' 
With all the Persons, do%vn to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find ; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-bora freedom on thy being's height. 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 







Book Fourth 

The yeais to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live. 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest, 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 
— Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings. 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections. 
Those shadowy recollections. 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 
To perish never ; 




372 



The Golden Treasury 



Which neither Ustlessness, nor mad endeavour 

Nor man nor boy 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence, in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither ; 
Can in a moment travel thither — 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song I 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 
We, in thought, will join your throng 
Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
We \vill grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind, 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be, 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering. 
In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 





iiiiliKf'^t^^A^- 






Book Fourth 



373 



Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquish'd one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway ; 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret 

Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

W. IVordswortk 

CCLXXXVIII 

MUSIC, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — ■ 
. Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone. 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

P. B. SMley 



m 





:.i<-. 





ir.c:^ 




NOTES 



Summary of Book First 

THE Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms 
the substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat 
under Henry VIII to Shakespeare midway through the reign 
of James I, and Drummond who carried on the early manner to 
a sv\\ later period. There is here a wide range of style ; — 
from simplicity expressed in a language hardly yet broken in 
to verse, — through the pastoral fancies and Italian conceits of 
the strictly Elizabethan time, — to the passionate reality of 
Shakespeare : yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few 
readers can fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, 
the single-hearted straightforwardness of the thoughts : — nor 
less, the limitation of subject to the many phases of one passion, 
which then characterized our lyrical poetry,- — unless when, as 
with Drummond and Shakespeare, the 'purple light of Love ' is 
tempered by a spirit of sterner reflection. 

It should be observed that this and the following Summaries 
apply in the main to the Collection here presented, in whicli 
(besides its restriction to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative 
or historical Anthology has not been aimed at. Great Excel- 
lence, in human art as in human character, has from the be- 
ginning of things been even more uniform than Mediocrity, by 
virtue of the closeness of its approach to Nature : — and so far 
as the standard of Excellence kept in view has been attained in 
this volume, a comparative absence of extreme or temporary 
phases in style, a similarity of tone and manner, will be found 
throughout: — something neither modem nor ancient, but true 
in all ages, and like the works of Creation, parfect as on the 
first day. 





^1^^^^ 



376 Notes 

Poffs No. 

2 II Rouse Me }ttiio}Cs mother '. Awaken the Dawn from the 

dark Earth and the clouds where she is resting. Au- 
rora in the old mythology is mother of Memnon (the 
East), and wife- of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth 
and Sky during the last hours of Night). She leaves 
him every morning in renewed youth, to prepare the 
way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst Tithonus remains in 
perpetual old age and grayness. 

— — 1. 27 by Pejieus' stream : Phoebus loved the Nymph 

Daphne, whom he met by the river Peneus in the vale 
of Tempe. This legend expressed the attachment of 
the Laurel (Daphne) to the Sun, under whose heat the 
tree both fades and flourishes. 

It has been thought worth while to explain these allu- 
sionSj because they illustrate the character of the Grecian 
Mythology, which arose in the Personification of natural 
phenomena, and was totally free from those debasing 
and ludicrous ideas with which, through Roman and 
later misunderstanding or perversion, it has been asso- 
ciated. 

3 II 1. I A^nphioiCs lyre: He was said to have built the 

walls of Thebes to the sound of his music. 

— ■ — I. g Ni^/it ii^e a drunkard ree/s : Compare 'Romeo 3.nd 

Juliet, Act II. Scene 3; *The gray-eyed mom smiles' 
&c. — It should be added, that three lines, which ap- 
peared hopelessly misprinted, have been omitted in this 
Poem. 

4 IV Time's chest: in which he is figuratively supposed to 

lay up past treasures. So in Troilus, Act III. Scene 3, 
' Time hath a wallet at his back ' &c. 
■ — V A fine example of the highwrought and conventional 
Elizabethan Pastoralism, which it would be ludicrous to 
criticise on the ground of the unshepherdlike or unreal 
character of some images suggested. Stanza 6 was 
probably inserted by Izaak Walton. 
8 IX This Poem, with x.\:v and xciv, is taken from Davison's 
'Rhapsody,' first published in 1602. One stanza has 
been here omitted, in accordance with the principle 
noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in 
XLV, LXXXVII, C, CXXVIir, CLXV, ccxxvir, ccxxxv. 
The more serious, abbreviation by which it has been 
attempted to bring Crashaw's ' Wishes ' and Shelley's 




M 





I 



Notes 



377 



Page No. 




' Euganean Hills' within the limits of lyrical unity, 
is commended with much diffidence to the judgment 
of readers acquainted with the original pieces. 
Presence in line 12 is here conjecturally printed for 
present. A very few similar corrections of [it is pre- 
sumed) misprints have been made; — as thy ior jny, 
xxn, 9 : ;«£■« for jne, xli, 3 : z'iol for idol, cclii, 43 ; 
and 07ie for 07ir, 90 : locks for looks, cclxxi, 5 : dome 
iot doom, ccLXXV, 23 : — with two or three more less 
important. 

12 XV This charming little poem, truly * old and plain, and 

dallying with the innocence of love ' like that spoken 
of in Twelfth Night, is taken, with v, xvii, xx, 
XXXIV, and xl, from the most characteristic collec- 
tion of Elizabeth's reign, 'England's Helicon,' first 
published in 1600. 
^ XVI Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of 
more than one picture by this gorgeous Vision of 
Beauty, equally sublime and pure in its Paradisiacal 
naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to ' the 
Islands of Terceras and the Canaries ' ; and he seems- 
to have caught, in those southern seas, no small por- 
tion of the qualities which marked the almost con- 
temporary Art of Venice, — the glory and the glow 
of Veronese, or Titian, or Tintoret, when he most 
resembles Titian, and all but surpasses him. 
The clear {\. i) is the crystalline or outermost heaven 
of the old cosmography. For resembling [\. 7) other 
copies give refining: the correct reading is perhaps 
revealing. For a Jair iliere^s Jairer none: If you 
desire a Beauty, there is none more beautiful than 
Rosaline, 

13 XVIII that /air tho2i owesi : that beauty thou ownest. 

ig XXIII ike star Whose ivorth 's njiknoivn, although his height 
he taken : apparently, Whose stellar influence is un- 
calculated, although his angular altitude from the 
plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon used by- 
astrologers has been determined. 

21 XXVII keel: skim. 

22 x.xix expense : waste, 

23 XXX Nativity o7ice in iJie jjiain of light: when a star has 

risen and entered on the full stream of light ; — .nn- 








378 

Page No. 



Notes 




other of the astrological phrases no longer famih'ar. 
Crooked eclipses ; as coming athwart the Sun's ap- 
parent course. 

Wordsworth, thinking probably of the 'Venus' and 
the 'Lucrece,' said finely of Shakespeare: 'Shake- 
speare could not have written an Epic ; he would 
have died of plethora of thought.' This prodigality 
of nature is exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The 
copious selection here given, (which, from the wealth 
of the material, required greater consideration than 
any other portion of the Editor's task,) — contains 
many that will not be fully felt and understood with- 
out some earnestness of thought on the reader's part. 
But he is not likely to regret the labour. 

24 XXXI upon niisprisio7i growifig: either, granted in error, 

or, on the growth of contempt. 
— xxxii With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's ' Gi^e 
me that man That is not passion's slave ' &c. Shake- 
speare's writings show the deepest sensitiveness to 
passion : — hence the attraction he felt in the con- 
trasting effects of apathy. 

25 xxxiii gramc : sorrow. It was long before English Poetry 

returned to the charming simplicity of this and a few 
other poems by Wyat. 

26 XXXIV Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela. 

28 xxxviii raviage: confused noise. 

29 XXXIX censiires: judges. 

30 XL By its style this beautiful example of old simplicity 

and feeling may be referred to the early years of 
Elizabeth. Late forgot ; lately. 

31 XLi haggards : the least tamable hawks. 

33 XLiv cypres or Cyprus, — used by the old writers for crape-, 

whether from the French crcspe or from the Island 
whence it was imported. Its accidental similarity in 
spelling to cypress has, here and in Milton's Penseroso, 
probably confused readers. 

34 XLVi, XLVii 'I never saw anything like this funeral dirge/ 

says Charles Lamb, 'except the ditty which reminds 
Ferdinand of his drowned father in the Tempest. As 
that is of the water, watery ; so this is of the earth, 
earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which 
seems to resolve itself into the element which it con- 
templates.' 








igr 



f 



Notes 375 

Page No. 

37 LI crystal', fairness. 

Liii This * Spousal Verse ' was written in honour of the 
Ladies Elizabeth and Katharine Somerset. Although 
beautiful, it is inferior to the ' Epithalamion ' on Spen- 
ser's own marriage, — omitted with great reluctance 
as not in harmony with modern manners. 

— I. 13 feateoiisly I elegantly. 

— 1. II shendi put out 

— I. I a noble peer: Robert Devereux, second Lord 
Essex, then at the height of his brief triumph after 
taking Cadiz : hence the allusion following to the 
Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient 
legend. L. 13 Eliza: Elizabeth. L. 29 iivhis of 
yove: the stars Castor and Pollux: baldric^ belt; 
the zodiac. 

A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry ; — that 
written by thoughtful men who practised this Art but 
little. Wotton's, Lxxii, is another. Jeremy Taylor, 
Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay, have 
left similar specimens. 



38 



46 LVII 



Suniifiary of Book Second 

This division, embracing the latter eighty years of the seven- 
tenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style and 
the commencement of the Modem. In Dryden we see the first 
master of the new : in Milton, whose genius dominates here as 
Shakespeare's in the former book, — the crown and consummation 
of the early period. Their splendid Odes are far in advance of 
any prior attempts, Spenser's excepted : they exhibit the wider 
and grander range which years and experience and the struggles 
of the time conferred on Poetry. Our Muses now give expres- 
sion to political feeling, to religious thought, to a high philosophic 
statesmanship in writers such as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton : 
whilst in Marvell and Milton,, again, we find the first noble at- 
tempts at pure description of nature, destined in our own ages 
to be continued and equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple 
passion, although before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies 
and conceits of thought, and aftanvard by levity and an artificial 
tone, — 'produced in Herrick and Waller some charming pieces 
of more finished art than the Elizabethan : until in the courtly 
compliments of Sedley it seems to e.\haust itself, and lie almost 






38o 



Notes 



dormant for the hundred years between the days of Wither and 
Suckling and the days of Burn'i and Cowper. — That the change 
from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss 
of nature and simplicity is undeniable : yet the far bolder and 
wider scope which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the 
successful efforts then made to gain greater clearness in expres- 
sion, in their results have been no slight compensation. 



Page No. 

52 LXII 

53 — 
56 - 





1. 20 luhisi: hushed. 
1. 13 Pan : used here for the Lord of all. 
1. ng Lars and Lei}iures : household gods and spirits 
of relations dead. Flainens (1. 22) Roman priests. 
That tivice-batier'd god (1. 27) Dagon. 
1. 9 Osirisy the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, 
perhaps by confusion with Apis, figured as a Bull), 
was torn to pieces by Typho and embalmed after 
death in a sacred chest. This mythe, reproduced in 
Syria and Greece in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, 
and perhaps Absyrtus, represents the annual death of 
the Sun or the Year under the influences of the winter 
darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the New Year, 
in his turn overcomes Typho. — It suited the genius 
of Milton's time to regard this primeval poetry and 
philosophy of the seasons, which has a further refer- 
ence to the contest of Good and Evil in Creation, as 
9. malignant idolatry. Shelley's Chorus in HellaSy 
'Worlds on worlds,' treats the subject in a larger and 
sweeter spirit. L. 11 njishower'd grass : as watered 
by the Nile only. 

The Late Massacre I the Vaudois persecution, carried 
on in 1655 by the Duke of Savoy. This 'collect in 
verse,' as it has been justly named, is the most mighty 
Sonnet in any language known to the Editor. Read- 
ers should observe that, unlike our sonnets of the six- 
teenth century, it is constructed on the original Italian 
or Provencal model, — unquestionably far superior to 
the imperfect form employed by Shakespeare and 
Drummond. 

Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650. Hence the 
prophecies not strictly fulfilled of his deference to the 
Parliament, in stanzas 21-24. 







Notes 



38> 



Page No. 





This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in out 
language, and more in Milton's style than has been 
reached by any other poet, is occasionally obscure 
from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The 
meaning of st 5 is 'rivalry or hostility are the 
to a lofty spirit, and limitation more hateful than op-, 
position.' The allusion in st. 11 is to the old pliysical 
doctrines of the nonexistence of a vacuum and the 
impenetrability of matter : — in st 17, to the omen 
traditionally connected with the foundation of the 
Capitol at Rome. The ancient belief that certain 
years in life complete natural periods and are hence 
peculiarly exposed to death, is introduced in st. 26 by 
the word climacteric. 

65 Lxvi Lycidas. The person lamented is Milton's college 

friend Edward King, drowned in 1637 whilst crossing 
from Chester to Ireland. 

Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected 
by the Dorian Greeks settled in Sicily : but the con- 
ventional use of it, exhibited more magnificently in 
Lycidas than in any other pastoral, is apparently of 
Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom 
of a great artist, has here united ancient mythology 
with what may be called the modern mythology of 
Camus and Saint Peter, — to direct Christian images. 
— The metrical structure of this glorious poem is part- 
ly derived from Italian models. 

66 — 1. 6 Sisters of the sacred well: the Muses said t« 

frequent the fountain Helicon on Mount Parnassus. 

67 -^ 1. 14 Mona : Anglesea, called by the Welsh Inis 

Dowil or the Dark Island, from its dense forests. 
Deva (1. 15) the Dee : a river which probably derived 
its magical character from Celtic traditions : it was 
long the boundary of Briton and Saxon. — These 
places are introduced, as being near the scene of the 
shipwreck. Orpheiis (1. 18) was torn to pieces by 
Thracian women. A inaryllis and Neaera (1. 28, 29) 
names used here for the love-idols of poets : as 
Dajnoetas previously for a shepherd. 

68 — 1. 3 the blind Fnry I Atropos, fabled to cut the thread 

of life. Arethuse (1. 13) and Mincius: Sicilian and 
Italian waters here alluded to as synonymous with 







3^2 

Fftge No. 




Notes 

the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and Virgil. L. i6 
oa£ : pipe, used here like Collins' oateii sto^t 1- i» 
No. cxLVi, for Song. L. 24 Hippotadcs : Aeolus, 
god of the Winds. Panope (1. 27) a Nereid. The 
names of local deities in the Hellenic mythology 
express generally some feature in the natural land- 
scape, which the Greeks studied and analyzed with 
their usual unequalled insight and feeling. Pa. 
represents the boundlessness of the ocean-horizon 
when seen from a height, as compared with the lim- 
ited horizon of the land in hilly countries such as 
Greece or Asia Minor. Camus (1. 31) the Cam; put 
for King's University. 
LXVI 1. 2 The sa7iguine fiower : the Hyacinth of the an- 
cients ; probably our Iris. The pilot (1. 5) Saint 
Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the 
Church on earth, to foretell ' the ruin of our corrupted 
clergy, then in their heighth' under Laud's primacy. 
L. 24 the nsjolf: Popery. Alphcus (1. 2S) a stream in 
Southern Greece, supposed to flow underseas to join 
the Arethuse. 

— 1. I Szvart star : the Dogstar, called swarthy because 
its heliacal rising in ancient times occurred soon after 
midsummer. L. 22 nzoist vows : either tearful pray- 
ers, or prayers for one at sea. Bellerns (1. 23) a giant, 
apparently created here by Milton to personify Belle- 
rium, the ancient title of the Land's End. The great 
Vision: — the story was that the Archangel Michael 
had appeared on the rock by Marazion in Moimt's 
Bay which bears his name. Milton calls on him to 
turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to pity 
Lycidas, if his body has drifted into the troubled wa- 
ters off the Land's End. Finisterre being the land 
due south of Marazion, two places in that district 
(then by our trade with Corunna probably less un- 
familiar to English ears) are named, — Na. 
now Mujio in Galicia, Bayona north of the Minho, or 
perhaps a fortified rock (one of the Cies Islands) not 
unlike Saint Michael's Mount, at the entrance of Vigo 
Bay. L. 33 ore : rays of golden light. 

— 1. 19 Doric lay : Sicilian, pastoral. 
LXX The assault was an attack on London expected 





Notes 3 8.3 

Page No. 

1642, when the troops of Charles I reached Brent- 
ford. 'Written on his door 'was in the original title 
of this sonnet Milton was then living in Aldersgate 
Street. 

74 Lxx 1. 10 The EiTiathian cojiqtieror: When Thebes was 
destroyed (b.c. 335) and the citizens massacred by 
thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar to 
be spared. He was as incapable of appreciating the 
Poet as Lewis XIV. of appreciating Racine : but 
even the narrow and barbarian mind of Alexander 
could understand the advantage of a showy act of 
homage to Poetry. 

— — 1. 12 the repeated air Of sad ElectrcCs poet I Amongst 
Plutarch's vague stories, he says that when the Spar- 
tan confederacy in 404 B.C. took Athens, a proposal to 
demolish it was rejected through the effect produced 
on the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from 
the Electra of Euripides sung at a feast. There is 
however no apparent congruity between the lines 
quoted (167, 168 Ed. Dindorf) and the result as- 
cribed to them. 

76 Lxxiii This high-toned and lovelj' Madrigal is quite in the 

style, and worthy of, the 'pure Simonides.' 

77 Lxxv Vaughan's beautiful though quaint verses should 

be compared with Wordsworth's great Ode, No. 

CCLXXXVII. 

78 uxxwi Pavojiius : the spring wind. 

79 LXxvii Themis: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grand- 

son by his mother to Sir E. Coke : — hence, as pointed 
out by Mr. Keightley, Milton's allusion to the bench. 
L. 8 : Sweden was then at war with Poland, and 
France with the Spanish Netherlands. 
81 Lxxix 1. 13 Syd?ieia?i. shmuersi either in allusion to the 
conversations in the 'Arcadia,' or to Sidney himself 
as a model of 'gentleness ' in spirit and demeanour. 

86 i-XXXiv Elizabeth o^' Bohemia: Daughter to James I, and 

ancestor to Sophia of Hanover. These lines are a 
fine specimen of gallant and courtly compliment. 

87 Lxxxv Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards 

Earl of Marlborough, who died March, 1628-9, coin- 
cidently with the dissolution of the third Parliament 
of Charles's reign. Hence Milton poetically compares 



»•■ " . "-^ 



^1^¥ 





384 Notes 

page No. 

his death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, 

after Philip's victory in 328 B.C. 
92 xcir, xciii These are quite a Painter's poems. 
96 xcix Frovt Priso7i : to which his active support of Charles 

I. twice brought the high-spirited writer. 

102 cv Inserted in Book II as written in the character of a 

Soldier of Fortune in the Seventeenth Century. 

103 cvi IVaiy lualy : an exclamation of sorrow, the root and 

the pronunciation of which are preserved in the word 
catenuanl. Brae, hillside : burn^ brook ; hisk, adorn. 
Saiiit AfitoK^s Tveli : at the foot of Arthur's Seat by 
Edinburgh, Cramasie, crimson. 

105 cvii hurd, maiden. 

106 cviii corbies, crows : /dii, turf: haitse, neck : theek, thatch. 

— If not in their origin, in their present form this and 
the two preceding poems appear due to the Seven- 
teenth Century, and have therefore been placed in 
Book II. 
109 CXI The remark quoted in the note to No. XLVir applies 
equally to these truly wonderful verses, which, like 
'Lycidas,' may be regarded as a test of any reader's 
insight into the most poetical aspects of Poetry. The 
general differences between them are vast ; but in 
imaginative intensity Marvell and Shelley are closely 
related. — This poem is printed as a translation in 
Marvell's works : but the original Latin is obviously 
his own. The most striking verses in it, here quoted 
as the book is rare, answer more or less to stanzas 7 
smd 6 : — 

Alma Quies, teneo te ! et te, germana Quietis, 
Simplicitas I vos ergo diu per templa, per urbes 
Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra ; 
Sed vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe 
Celarunt plantae virides, et concolor umbra. 

L*A lligro and II Penseroso. It is a striking proof of 
Milton's astonishing power, that these, the earliest 
pure Descriptive Lyrics in our language, should still 
remain the best in a style which so many great poets 
have since attempted. The Bright and the Thought- 
ful aspects of Nature are their subjects ; but each is 
preceded by a mythological introduction in a mixad 



.9- 








Notes 



385 



Page No. 




m 



>v'il. 




Classical and Italian manner. The meaning of the 
first is that Gaiety is the child of Nature ; of the sec- 
ond, that Pensiveness is the daughter of Sorrow and 
Genius. 

[II cxii 1. 2 : Perverse ingenuity has conjectured that for 
Cerhenis we should read Erebits, who in the My- 
thology is brother at once and husband of Night. 
But the issue of that union is not Sadness, but Day 
and Aether : — completing the circle of primary Crea- 
tion, as the parents are both children of Chaos, the 
first-begotten of all things. (Hesiod.) 

\X2 /— I. 22 the ffwuntain nymphi compare Wordsworth's 
Sonnet, No. ccx. 

:i3 .— I. 14 is in appQsitio7i to the preceding, by a grammat- 
ical license not uncommon with Milton. L. 19 tells 
his iale: counts his flock. Cyfios7ire {\. 32) the Pole 
Star. 

:i4 r 1. I Corydon, Thyrsis ^z. : Shepherd names from the 
old Idylls. 

:i5 *-. I. 16 yojisofi's learned sock: — the gaiety of our age 
would find little pleasure in his elaborate comedies. 
X.. iQ Lydia7i ai^sl a light and festive style of an- 
cient music. 

16 CXII1 {. 3 bestead: avail. L. 19 starr'd Ethiop queen: 

Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and 
thence translated amongst the constellations. 

17 — !• 33 Cynthia : the Moon : her chariot is drawn by 

dragons in ancient representations. 

18 — i I. 28 Hermes, called Trismegistus, a mystical writer 

of the Neo-Platonist school. 

19 — (.5 Thebes Sec. : subjects of Athenian Tragedy 

Biiskin^d {I. 8) tragic. L. 10 Musaeus : a poet in 
Mythology. L. 15 hiin that left half-told: Chau- 
cer, in his incomplete 'Squire's Tale.' L. 22 great 
hards: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser are here intended. 
L. 29 froujiced: curled. The A tiic Boy (I. 30) 
Cephalus. 

21 cxiv Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by 

the government of Charles I. 

22 — 1. g, 10 But apples. Sec. A fine example of Marvell's 

imaginative hyperbole. 

23 cxv I. 2 concent: harmony. 

2^ 



S'Jr. 



m^^^ 




3«6 



Notes 



Summary of Book Third 



It is more difficult to characterize the English Poetry of the 
eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age 
not only of spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment ; it 
includes not only such divergences of thought as distinguish the 
'Rape of the Lock' from the 'Parish Register,' but such vast 
contemporaneous diiferences as lie between Pope and Collins, 
Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace three leading 
moods or tendencies: — the aspects of courtly or educated life 
represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; 
the poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, 
and at the same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins 
and Gray : — lastly, the study of vivid and simple narrative, in- 
cluding natural description, begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued 
by Burns and others in the North, and established in England by 
Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great varieties in style 
accompanied these diversities in aim : poets could not always 
distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart ; and the 
union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited 
most conspicuously by Bums, has given a tone to the poetry of 
that century which is better explained by reference to its histori- 
cal origin, than by naming it, in the common criticism of our day, 
artificial. There is, again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous 
aim at high, and in a strict sense manly, excellence in many of 
the writers : — ■ nor can that period be justly termed tame and want- 
ing in originality, which produced poems such as Pope's Satires, 
Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey, the songs 
of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times 
was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age : 
and the brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the 
eighteenth century the turning-time in European civilization is 
reflected faithfully in its verse. An intelligent reader will find 
the influence of Newton as markedly in the poems of Pope, as 
of Elizabeth in the plays of Shakespeare. On this great subject, 
however, these indications must here be sufficient. 



ii^ 



'^ 






Page No. 

136 cxxiii The Bard. This Ode is founded on a fable that Ed- 
ward I, after conquering Wales, put the native Poets 
to death. — After lamenting his comrades (st. 2, 3) the 
Bard prophesies the fate of Edward II and the cen- 
quests of Edward III (4); his death and that of the 



M^ 




Notes 



Page No. 



3S7 






Black Prince (5) : of Richard II, with the wars of 
York and Lancaster, the murder of Henry VI (the 
tneck iis7trper\ and of Edward V and his brother (6). 
He turns to the glory and prosperity following the 
accession of the Tudors (7), through Elizabeth's reign 
(8) : and concludes with a vision of the poetry of 
Shakespeare and Milton. 

136 cxxiii I. 13 Glossier'. Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward. 

Mortimer^ one of the Lords Marchers of Wales. 

137 — \. 21 A rvofz : the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite 

Anglesey. 

138 — 1. g She-wolf : Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of 

Edward II. 

139 — 1. 7 Towers of ynliiis: the Tower of London, built 

in part, according to tradition, by Julius Caesar. L. 
13 bristled boar: the badge of Richard IIL L. ig 
Half of thy heart: Queen Eleanor died soon after 
the conquest of Wales. L. 29 Arthnr: Henr>' VII 
named his eldest son thus, in deference to British 
feeling and legend. 

141 cxxv The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Dru- 

mossie. 

142 cxxvi lilting^ singing blithely : loaning, broad lane : bughts, 

pens : scoriiiiig, rallying : dowie, dreary : daffin^ and 
^«Miw', joking and chatting : leglifi, milkpail : shear- 
ing, reaping : handsters^ sheaf-binders : lyart, griz- 
zled : ntnkled, wrinkled : flceching^ coaxing : gloani' 
itig, twilight : bogle, ghost : dool, sorrow. 

144 cxxviii The Editor has found no authoritative text of this 
poem, in his judgment superior to any other of its 
class in melody and pathos. Part is probably not later 
than the seventeenth century : in other stanzas a more 
modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable, 
Logan's poem (cxxvii) exhibits a knowledge rather of 
the old legend than of the old verses. — Hecht, prom- 
ised : the obsolete hight: mavis, thrush : ilka, every : 
lav'rock, lark : hajighs, valley-meadows : iivijied, part- 
ed from : ?narro7v, mate : sy^te, then. 

146 cxxix The Royal George, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a 
partial careening in Portsmouth Harbour, was overset 
about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The total loss was be; 
lieved to be near 1000 souls. 



m. 




''./ 



156 CXL 




Notes 

Page No. 

149 cxxxi A little masterpiece in a very difficult style : Catullus 
himself could hardly have bettered it. In grace, ten- 
derness, simplicity, and humour it is worthy of the 
Ancients ; and even more so, from the completeness 
and unity of the picture presented. 

154 cxxxvi Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs 
of the poetic nature has left less satisfactory poetry 
than Thomson. Yet he touched little which he did not 
beautify : and this song, with ' Rule Britannia ' and a 
few others, must make us regret that he did not more 
seriously apply himself to lyrical writing. 
1. 1 ^ eolia^i lyre : the Greeks ascribed the origin of 
their Lyrical Poetry to the colonies of Aeolis in Asia 
Minor. 

1. 15 T/iracia's hills: supposed a favourite resort of 
Mars. Feather'd king (1. 19} the Eagle of Jupiter, 
admirably described by Pindar in a passage here im- 
itated by Gray. Idalia (1. 25) in Cyprus, where Cy- 
tkerea (Venus) was especially worshipped. 
1. 18 Hyperion: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets 
of the Islands and Mainland of Greece, to those of 
Rome and of England, 
1. 15 Tkebaji Eagle : Pindar. 

163 cxLi 1. \x cliaste-eyed Queen : Diana. 

164 cxLii A ttic warbler : the nightingale. 
167 CXLIV sleekit, sleek : bickering- brattle, flittering flight : 

laith, loth: paltle, ploughstaff": lu/iyles, at times: a 
daimen icker, a corn-ear now and then : thrave, 
shock : lave^ rest : foggage, aftergrass : S7iell^ biting : 
biit kald, without dwelling-place : thole, bear : cran- 
retich, hoarfrost : thy laiie, alone : a-gley, off the right 
line, awry. 
171 cxLVii Perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language. 

176 cxLviii stoure^ dust-storm : braiv, smart. 

177 cxLix scaith, hurt : te7tt, guard : steer, molest. 
179 CLi dnanlie, muddy : birk, birch. 
iSi CLii greet, cry: daumay dare not. — There can hardly 

exist a poem more truly tragic in the highest sense 
than this : nor, except Sappho, has any Poetess known 
to the Editor equalled it in excellence. 
"• CLiii fou, merry with drink : coosi, carried : unco skeigh, 
very proud : gart, forced : abeigh, aside : A ilsa Craig. 






J»-. 



m& 



E£A 




Nates 



389 



Page No. 




a rock in the Firth of Clyde : grai his een bleert^ 
cried till his eyes were bleared : lowphi, leaping : Ihm, 
waterfall : sair, sore : smoor'd, smothered ; croiise and 
canty, blythe and gay. 

183 CLIV Bums justly named this 'one of the most beautiful 

songs in the Scots or any other language.' One verse, 
interpolated by Beattie, is here omitted : — it contains 
two good lines, but is quite out of harmony with the 
original poem. Bigofiet, little cap ; probably altered 
from hegiiiiiette : th-raw, twist : caller, fresh. 

184 CLV airts, quarters : ro-w, roll : sJiaiv, small wood In a 

hollow, spinney : knerwcs^ knolls. 

185 CLvr jo, sweetheart: brent, smooth : ^(?w, head. 

186 CLVii leal, faithful : faiyi, happy. 
1S7 CLViii Henry VI founded Eton. 

194. CLXI The Editor knows no Sonnet more remarkable than 
this, which, with clxii, records Cowper's gratitude to 
the Lady whose affectionate care for many years gave 
what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radically 
wretched. Petarch's sonnets have a more ethereal 
grace and a more perfect finish ; Shakespeare's more 
passion ; Milton's stand supreme in stateliness, Words- 
worth's in depth and delicacy. But Cowper's unites 
with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the 
ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pa- 
thetic tenderness peculiar to his loving and ingenu- 
ous nature. — There is much mannerism, much that 
is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his 
poems : but where he is great, it is with that ele- 
mentary greatness which rests on the most universal 
human feelings. Cowper is our highest master in 
simple pathos. 

197 cLxiii fancied green : cherished garden. 

igS CLXIV Nothing except his surname appears recoverable with 
regard to the author of this truly noble poem. It 
should be noted as exhibiting a rare excellence, — the 
climax of simple sublimity. 

It is a lesson of high ins true tiveness to examine the 
essential qualities which give first-rate poetical rank to 
lyrics such as ' To-morrow ' or * Sally in our Alley,' 
when compared with poems written (if the phrase may 
be allowed) in keys so different as the subtle sweetness 



\3S^. 






390 Notes 

of Shelley, the grandeur of Gray and Milton, or the 
delightful Pastoralism of the Elizabethan verse. In- 
telligent readers will gain hence a clear understanding 
of the vast imaginative range of Poetry; — through 
what wide oscillations the mind and the taste of a 
nation may pass; — how many are the roads which 
Truth and Nature open to Excellence. 

Sttvtniary of Book Fourth 

It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, 
that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the stand- 
ard of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with 
very few exceptions composed during the first thirty years of the 
nineteenth century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for 
the strangely sudden appearance of individual genius : but none, 
in the Editor's judgment, can be less adequate than that which 
assigns the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry 
to an impulse from the frantic follies and criminal wars that at the 
time disgraced the least essentially civilized of our foreign neigh- 
bours. The first French Revolution was rather, In his opinion, 
one result, and in itself by no means the most important, of that 
far wider and greater spirit which through enquiry and doubt, 
through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind round the circles of 
its gradual development : and it is to this that we must trace the 
literature of modem Europe. But, without more detailed discus- 
sion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats, 
and Shelley, we may observe that these Poets, with others, carried 
to further perfection the later tendencies of the Century preced- 
ing, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Passion and 
Character in every sphere, and impassiloned love of Nature : — 
that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art made 
since the Restoration, they renewed the half- forgotten melody 
and depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers : — ■ 
that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in 
language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a 
tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages 
of the Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger 
and wiser Humanity, — hitherto hardly attained, and perhapi. 
unattainable even by predecessors of not inferior individual gen 
ius. In a word, the Nation which, after the Greeks in their glo- 
ry, has been the most gifted of all nations for Poetry, expressec* 








Notes 



39t 




fn these men the highest strength and prodigality of its nature. 
They interpreted the age to itself — hence the many phases of 
thought and style they present : — to sympathize with each, fer- 
vently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness, is 
no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as 
with the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is abso- 
lutely proportionate to Strength : — and when once the mind has 
raised itself to grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love 
most will be found to love most wisely. 

Page No. 

200 c Lxvi sioui Coriez: History requires here Bal66a: (A.T.) 
It may be noticed, that to find in Chapman's Homer 
the *pure serene' of the original, the reader must 
bring with him the imagination of the youthful poet ; 

— he must be *a Greek himself/ as Shelley finely said 
of Keats. 

206 CLXix The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems. 

— CLXx This poem, with ccxxxvi, exemplifies the peculiar 

skill with which Scott employs proper names : — nor 
i= there a surer sign of high poetical genius. 

227 cxci The Editor in this and in other instances has risked 
the addition (or the change) of a Title, that the aim of 
the verses following may be grasped more clearly and 
immediately. 

23s cxcviii Nature's Ereyniiet like a solitary thing in Nature. 

— This beautiful Sonnet was the last word of a poet 
deserving the title 'marvellous boy' in a much higher 
sense than Chatterton. If the fulfilment may ever 
safely be prophesied from the promise, England ap- 
pears to have lost in Keats one whose gifts in Poetry 
have rarely been surpassed. Shakespeare, Milton, 
and Wordsworth, had their lives been closed at twen- 
ty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of 
less excellence and hope than the youth who, from the 
petty school and the London surgery, passed at once 
to a place with them of ' high collateral glory.' 

837 cci It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so 
little in this sweet and genuinely national style. 

— ecu A masterly example of Byron's command of strong 

thought and close reasoning in verse: — as the next 
is equally characteristic of Shelley's wayward inten- 
sity, and cciv of the dramatic power, the vital identi' 




\i.::^d 



f7\j 





392 

Page No. 



Notes 






fication of the poet with other times and characters!, 
in which Scott is second only to Shakespeare. 

248 ccrx Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke 

of Savoy in Chtllon on the lake of Geneva for his 
courageous defence of his country against the tyranny 
with which Piedmont threatened it during the first 
half of the seventeenth century. — This noble Sonnet 
is worthy to stand near Milton's on the Vaudois mas. 
sacre. 

249 ccx Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napo- 

leon in iSoo : Venice in 1797 (ccxi). 

252 ccxv This battle was fought Dec. 2, iSoo, between the 
Austrians under Archduke John and the French un- 
der Moreau, in a forest near Munich. Hoke}i Linden 
means High Li7iietrees, 

257 CCXVni After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. 
Moore retreated before Soult and Ney to Corunna, 
and was killed whilst covering the embarcation of his 
troops. His tomb, built by Ney, bears this inscription : 
'John Moore, leader of the English armies, slain in 
battle, 1809.' 

272 ccxxix The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, 
Ben Jonson, and other choice spirits of that age. 

t73 ccxxx Maisic : Mary. Scott has given us nothing more 
complete and lovely than this little song, which unites 
simplicity and dramatic power to a wildwood music of 
the rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less any 
conscious analysis of feeling attempted ; the pathetic 
meaning is left to be suggested by the mere present- 
ment of the situation. Inexperienced critics have 
often named this, which may be called the Homeric 
manner, superficial, from its apparent simple facility. 
but first-rate excellence in it (as shown here, in cxcvi, 
CLVi, and cxxix) is m truth one of the least commoii 

I triumphs of Poetry. — This style should be compared 

with what is not less perfect in its way, the searching 
out of inner feelings, the expression of hidden mean- 
ings, the revelation of the heart of Nature and of the 
Soul within the Soul, ■ — the Analytical method, in 
short, — most completely represented by Wordswortli 
and by Shelley. 

b8o ccy*=xiv correi: covert on a hillside. Cumber: trouble. 







t 



Notes 



393 




Page No. 

280 ccxxxv Two intermediate stanzas have been here omitted. 
They are very ingenious, but, of all poetical qualities, 
ingenuity is least in accordance with pathos. 

295 CCXLIII This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined 
with an exquisiteness of expression, which place it 
in the highest rank amongst the many masterpieces 
of its illustrious Author. 

306 ccLir interhatar s^uoofi : interval of the Moon's invisibility. 

313 ccuviCaipe: Gibraltar. Lofodeii: the IMaelstrom whirl- 
pool off the N.W, coast of Norway. 

315 ccLVii This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by 
Hamilton on the subject better treated in cxxvii and 
cxxviir. 

330 ccLXViii ArctuHi seemingly used for Jiortliertt stars. — 
A7td'wild roses &^c. Our language has no line mod- 
ulated with more subtle sweetness, A good poet 
mz£-/tiha.ve -wrilten A fid roses ivild*. — yet this slight 
change would disenchant the verse of its peculiar 
beauty. 

J34 CCLXX Ceres^ daughteri Proserpine. God of Tormcftt: 
Pluto. 

— CCLXXI This impassioned address expresses Shelley's most 
rapt imaginations, and is the direct modern represent- 
ative of the feelings which led the Greeks to the wor- 
ship of Nature. 

345 CCLXXIV The leading idea of this beautiful description of a 
day's landscape in Italy is expressed with an obscurity 
not unfrequent with its author. It appears to be, — 
On the voyage of life are many moments of pleasure, 
given by the sight of Nature, who has power to heal 
even the worldliness and the uncharity of man. 

347 — 1, 4 Amphitrite was daughter to Ocean. 

•— — ■ I. 22 Sn7i-girt City : It is difficult not to believe that 
the correct reading is Sea-girt. Many of Shelley's 
poems appear to have been printed in England during 
his residence abroad : others were printed from his 
manuscripts after his death. Hence probably the text 
of no English Poet after 1660 contains so many errors. 
See the Note on No. ix. 

351 ccLXXV 1. 21 Maenad: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on 

Dionysus in the Greek mythology. 

352 — 1. 17 Plants under water sympathize with the seasons 



^- 





jawr*T»K, 




\ "^^I'i'J 




INDEX OF WRITERS 

WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH 

Alexander, William (1580 -1640), xxii 

Bacon, Francis (1561 -1626), LVit 

Barbauld, Anna Laetitia (1743- 1825)^ CLXV 

Barnefield, Richard (iGth Century), xxxiv 

Beaumont, Francis (1586-^:6x6), lxvii 

Burns, Robert (1759- 1796), cxxv, cxxxir, cxxxix, cxliv,, 

CXLVin, CXHX, CL, CLI, CLIII, CLV, CLVI 

Byron, George Gordon Noel {1788 -1824), clxix, clxxi, clxxiii^ 

CXC, CCH, ccix, CCXXII, CCXXXII 

Campbell, Thomas (1777 -1844), clxxxi, clxxxiii, clxxxvh, 

cxcvii, ccvr, ccvii, ccxv, cclvi, cclxii, CCLXVir, cclxxxiii 
Carew, Thomas (1589- 1639), Lxxxvii 

Carey, Heniy ( 1743), cxxxi 

CiBBER, Colley (1671-1757), cxix 

Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849), clxxv 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834), clxviii, cclxxx 

Collins, William, (1720-1756), cxxiv^ cxli, cxlvi 

Collins, (i8th Century), clxiv 

Constable, Henry (i56-?-i6o4?) xv 

Cowley, Abraham (1618-1667), cii 

CowPER, William (1731-1800), cxxix, cxxxiv, cxliii, clx, clxi, 

CLXII 

Crashaw, Richard (1615?- 1652), lxxix 
Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842), ccv 

Daniel, Samuel (1562- 1619), xxxv 

Dekker, Thomas ( 1638?), liv 

Drayton, Michael (1563-1631), xxxvii 

Drummond, William (1585- 1649), 11, xxxviii, xliii, lv, lviii, 

LIX, LXI 

Deyden, John (1631-1700), lxiii, cxvi 








00^ 





396 Index of Writers 

Elliott, Jane (i8th Century), cxxvi 

Fletcher, John (1576-1625), civ 

Gay, John (16S8-1732), cxxx 
Goldsmith, Oliver (1728 -1774), cxxxviii 

Graham, {1735- 1797), cxxxni 

Gray, Thomas (1716 - 1771), cxvii, cxx, cxxiii, cxl, cxliIi 

CXLVII, CLVIII, CLIX 

Herbert, George (1593-1632), lxxiv 
V'Herrick, Robert (1591-1674?), lxxxii, lxxxviii, xgii, xciil, 
xcvi, cix, cx 

Heywood, Thomas ( 1649?), lii 

Hood, Thomas (1798 -1845), ccxxiv, ccxxxi, ccxxxv 

JoNSON Ben (1574- 1637), lxxiii, lxxviii, xc 

Keats, John (1795- 1821), clxvi, clxvii, cxci, cxciii, cxcviii, 
cxcix, ccxxix, ccxliv, cclv, cclxx, cclxxxiv 

Lamb, Charles (1775 -1835), ccxx, ccxxxni, ccxxxvii 

Lindsay, Anne (1750-1825), clii 

Lodge, Thomas (1556-1625), xvi 

Logan, John {1748-1788), cxxvii 

Lovelace, Richard (1618-1658), lxxxiii, xcix, c 

Lylye, John (1554- 1600), LI 

Marlowe, Christopher (1562-1593), v 

Marvell, Andrew (1620- 1678), lxv, cxi, cxiv 

MiCKLE, William Julius (1734- 178O), cliv 

Milton, John (1608 -1674), lxii, lxiv, lxvi, lxx, lxxi, lxxvi, 

lxxvii, lxxxv, cxii, cxiii, cxv 
Moore, Thomas (1780-1852), clxxxv, ca, ccxvii, ccxxi, ccxx^ 

Nairn, Carolina (1766- 1845), CLVii 
Nash, Thomas (1567-1601?), i 

Philips, Ambrose (1671-1749), cxxi 
Pope, Alexander (1688- 1744), cxviii 
Prior, Matthew (1664- 1721), cxxxvii 

Rogers, Samuel (1762 -1855), cxxxv, cxlv 






Ifidt'x of PVr/ters 



Scott, Walter (1771-1832), cv, clxx, clxxxii, clxxxvi, cxctr, 

CXCIV, CXCVf, CCIVj CCXXX, CCXXXIV, CCXXXVI, CCXXXIX, CCLXIU 

Sedley, Charles (1639-1701), lxxxi, xcvin 

Sewell, George ( -lysBX clxiit 

Shakespeare, William {1564- 1616), iii, iv, vr, vrr, viir, x, xr, 

ill, XIII, XIV, XVIII, XIX, XX, XXIII, XXVI, XXVII, XXVllI, XXIX, 
XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXVI, XXXIX, XLII, XLIV, XLV, XLVl, 
XLVIII, XLIX, L, LVI, LX 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1795 -1822), clxxii, clxxvi, clxxxiv, 

CLXXXVIII, CXCV, CCIII, CCXXVI, CCXXVn, CCXLI, CCXLVI, CCLir, 
CCLIX, CCLX, CCLXIV, CCLXV, CCLXVIII, CCLXXI, CCLXXIV, 
CCLXXV, CCLXXVII, CCLXXXV, CCLXXXVIII 

Shirley, James (1596- 1666), lxviii, lxix 

Sidney, Philip (1554- 1586), xxiv 

SouTHEY, Robert (1774-1843), ccxvi, ccxxviii 

Spenser, Edmund (1553 -1598-9), liii 
Suckling, John (1608-9- 1641), ci 
Sylvester, Joshua (1563 -1618), xxv 



Thomson, James (1700- 1748), cxxii, cxxxvi 



Vaughan, Henry (1621- 1695), lxxv 
Vere, Edward (1534-1604), XLI 




Waller, Edmund (1605 -1687), lxxxix, xcv 

Webster, John ( 1638?), xlvii 

Wither, George (1588-1667), ciir 

Wolfe, Charles (1791-1823), ccxviii 

Wordsworth, William (1770- 1850), clxxiv, clxxvii, clxxviii, 
clxxix, clxxx, clxxxix, cc, ccviii, ccx, ccxi, ccxii, ccxiii, 
ccxiv, ccxix, ccxxiii, ccxxxviii, ccxl, ccxlil, ccxliii, 
ccxlv, ccxlvn, ccxlviii, ccxlix, ccl, ccli, ccliii, cclht, 
cclvii, cclviii, cclxi, cclxvi, cclxix, cclxxii, cclxxiii, 
cclxxvi, cclxxviii, cclxxix, cclxxxi, cclxxxii, cclxxxvi, 
cclxxxvii 

Wotton, Henry (1568-1639), Lxxii, lxxxiv 

Wyat, Thomas (1503-1542), xxi, xxxiii 

Unknown : ix, xvii, XL, Lxxx, Lxxxiy, xci, xciv, xcvil, cvi^ 
cvii, cviii, cxxviii 





INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Absence, hear thou my protestation 8 

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 216 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 328 

Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit 84 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 221 

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd 147 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights 202 

And are ye sure the news is true 182 

And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 317 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 237 

And wilt thou leave me thus 25 

Ariel to Miranda : — Take 306 

Art thou pale for weariness 327 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers 44 

As it fell upon a day 26 

As I was walking all alane 106 

A slumber did my spirit seal 215 

As slow our ship her foamy track 262 

A sweet disorder in the dress 92 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears . , 305 

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly. . 237 

Avenge, O Lord ! thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones . . 60 

Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake* 156 

Awake, awake, my Lyre 99 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid 231 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea 242 

A widow bird sate mourning for her Love 327 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth 201 

Beauty sat bathing by a spring 14 








«=^^ 




Index of First Lines ^gg 

Behold her, single in the field 304 

Being your slave, what should I do but tend 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed. . ... . . . 293 

Best and Brightest, come away 320 

Bid me to live, and I will live 94 

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy 122 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 32 

Bright Star 1 would I were steadfast as thou art ... . 235 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren 35 

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air .... 

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms 74 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night 27 

Come away, come away, Death - . 33 

Come live with me and be my Love 4 

Crabbed Age and Youth 6 

Cupid and my Campaspe play*d 37 

Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench 79 

Daughter of Jove, relentless power 190 

Daughter to that good earl, once President 87 

Degenerate Douglas ! O the unworthy lord 300 

Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly 12 

Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move .... 47 

Down in yon garden sweet and gay 144 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 91 

Duncan Gray cam here to woo 1 

Earl March look'd on his dying child 234 

Earth has not anything to show more fair 299 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind 2, 

Ethereal Minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky 

Ever let the Fancy roam 331 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 108 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 107 

Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing 23 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 33 

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove 154 

Forget not yet the tried intent 17 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year 365 

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony 





400 Index of First Lines 

From Stirling Castle we Had seen 315 

Full fathom five thy father lies 34 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 85 

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even .222 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 151 

Go, lovely Rose 90 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit .281 

Happy the man, whose-wish and care 131 

Happy those early days, when I „ 77 

He that loves a rosy cheek 

He is gone on the mountain 279 

Hence, all you vain delights loi 

Hence, loathed Melancholy in 

Hence, vain deluding Joys 116 

How delicious is the winning 219 

How happy is he born and taught 75 

How like a winter hath my absence been 9 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 141 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 221 

How vainly men themselves amaze 109 

I am monarch of all I survey 192 

I arise from dreams of Thee 209 

I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 329 

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 169 

If doughty deeds my lady please 152 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 

If Thov/ survive my well-contented day 35 

If to be absent were to be 97 

If women could be fair, and yet not fond 31 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 261 

I heard a thousand blended notes 335 

I met a traveller from an antique land 299 

I 'm wearing awa', Jean 181 

In a drear-nighted December 227 

In the downhill of life, when I find I 'm declining .... 198 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan 258 

I remember, I remember 266 

I saw where in the shroud did lurk 283 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 325 





.J>^.^~ 



IncCcx of First Lines 401 

It is not Beauty' I demand 83 

It is not growing like a tree 76 

I travell'd among unknown men 213 

It was a lover and his lass 7 

It was a summer evening 254 

I Ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking' 141: 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud 309 

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile 353 

I wish I were where Helen lies 105 

John Anderson my jo, John 185 

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son 78 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 18 

Life ! I know not what thou art 199 

Life of Life ! Thy Hps enkindle 334 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore ... 23 

Like to the clear in highest sphere 12 

Love not me for comely grace 95 

Lo I where the rosy-bosom'd Hours 164 

Many a green isle needs must be 345 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings 194 

Milton I thou shouldst be living at this hour 251 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 169 

Mortality, behold and fear 71 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes ........ 331 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 200 

Music, when soft voices die 373 

My days among the Dead are past 271 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 296 

My heart leaps up when I behold 366 

My Love in her attire doth shew her wit 93 

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow .... 28 

My thoughts hold mortal strife 32 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his ig 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead, 36 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 257 

Not, Celia, that I justeram , . 96 

Now the golden Mom aloft 129 

Now the last day of many days . . , 322 



'^^"^ 





402 Index of First Lines 

O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 295 

O Erignall banks are wild and fair 2o(i 

Of all the girls that are so smart 149 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 184 

Of Nelson and the North 244 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 250 

Of this fair volume which we World do name ...... 47 

Oft in the stilly night . .' 267 

O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm 18 

O listen, listen, ladies gay 281 

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see 233 

O Mary, at thy window be ... , 176 

O me ! what eyes hath love put in my head 29 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming 20 

O my Luve 's like a red, red rose 17S 

On a day, alack the day 16 

On a Poet's lips I slept 355 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 25a 

One more Unfortunate 274 

O never say that I was false of heart 10 

One word is too often profaned 240 

On Linden, when the sun was low 252 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley 177 

O say what is that thing calPd Light 131 

O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 277 

O talk not to me of a name great in story ...... 206 

Our bugles sang trace, for the night-cloud had lower'd . . 328 

Over the mountains 82 

O waly waly up the bank 103 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 229 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being . . . 351 

O World ! O Life ! O Time I 366 

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day 37 

Phosbus, arise 2 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 240 

Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth 45 

Proud Maisie is in the wood 273 

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair 79 

Rarely, rarely, comest thou 268 

Kuin seize thee, ruthless King 136 











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I?idcx of First Lines 403 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 311 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day 15 

Shall I, wasting in despair 100 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 213 

She is not fair to outward view 212 

She walks in beauty, like the night 210 

She was a phantom of delight 211 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea ... 4 

Since there 's no help, come let us kiss and part .... 28 

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile 153 

Souls of Poets dead and gone 272 

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king ... i 

Star that bringest home the bee 325 

Stern Daughter of the voice of God 246 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind 236 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes 90 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 301 

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade .... 153 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 224 

Take, O take those lips away 27 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 357 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 86 

Tell me where is Fancy bred 36 

That time of year thou may'st in me behold 21 

That which her slender waist confined 94. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 171 

The forward youth that would appear ' '. 61 

The fountains mingle with the river 220 

The glories of our blood and state 73 

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King .... 49 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 141 

The merchant, to secure his treasure 155 

The more we live, more brief appear 364 

The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade 166 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 209 

There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine 265 

There is a garden in her face 92 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 263 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream . . . 367 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear . 270 

The sun upon the lake is low .... ■ 326 



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404 Index of First Lines 

The twentieth year is well nigh past 195 

The World is too much with us ; late and soon 356 

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man 46 

They that have power to hurt, and will do none .... 24 

This is the month, and this the happy morn 50 

This Life, which seems so fair 44 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 214 

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream 143 

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright 102 

Timely blossom, Infant fair 134 

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry 48 

Toll for the Brave 146 

To me, fair Friend, you ne\Pr can be old 11 

'T was at the royal feast for Persia won 123 

'Twas on a lofty vase's side 132 

Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea 249 

Under the greenwood tree 6 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying 357 

Victorious men of earth, no more 72 

Waken, lords and ladies gay 287 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie 167 

Were I as base as is the lowly plain 19 

We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 361 

We walk'd along, while bright and red ....... 359 

We watch'd her breathing thro' the night 280 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 93 

When Britain first at Heaven's command 135 

When first the fiery-mantled Sun 313 

When God at first made Man . ■ 76 

When he who adores thee has left but the name .... 256 

When icicles hang by the wall 21 

When I consider how my light is spent 74 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed .... 252 

When I havj fears that I may cease to be 235 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 3 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 10 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 15 

When lovely woman stoops to folly 155 

When Love with unconfined wings 96 






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Index of First Lines 405 

When maidens sucli as Hester die - , . . 278 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young 160 

When Ruth was left half desolate 336 

When the lamp is shatter'd 232 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame . . i8a 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 22 

When we two parted 226 

Where art thou, my beloved Son 285 

Where shall the lover rest 22S 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 121 

While that the sun with his beams hot 30 

Whoe'er she he 80 

Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 225 

Why, Damon, with the forward day 197 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover gS 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladie 218 

With little here to do or see 31a 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 179 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon _ . . 156 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 187 

Ye Mariners of England 243 

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye 301 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 65 

Vou meaner beauties of the night ■ • ■ 8fi 




